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CRANE  8 

COMPANY: 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


TALES  OF  THE  TRAIL 


SHORT  STORIES  OF  WESTERN  LIFE 


BY 

COLONEL  HENRY  INMAN 
W 

Late  Assistant  Quartermaster,  United  States  Army 
AUTHOR  OF  "  THB  OLD  SANTA  Fi  TRAIL,"    "  SALT  LAKE  TRAIL  ' 


FIFTH  EDITION 


CRANE  &  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 

TOPEKA,  KANSAS 

1908 


Copyright  1898,  by  CRANK  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


PAQX. 
GENERAL  FORSYTHE  AT  THE  ARRIOKAREE 1 

EL  SOLITARIO,  THE  HERMIT  PRIEST  OF  THE  OLD  SANTA 
FE  TRAIL 24 

MEDICINE  BLUFF ; . .  45 

A  EACE  FOR  LIFE  :  An  Incident  of  the  Indian  War  of 
1864 58 

THE  TRAGEDY  AT  TWIN  MOUNDS:  An  Incident  of  the 
Indian  War  of  1866-'67 96 

WAL.  HENDERSON 129 

KIT  CARSON'S  PAWNEE  ROOK  STORY 151 

SHERIDAN'S  ROOST 170 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  BUFFALO 179 

JUDGE  LYNCH' s  COURT  AT  WHOOPING  HOLLOW 192 

THE  WOOING  OF  AH-KEY-NES-TOU 240 

KIT  CARSON'S  "  FIRST  INDIAN  " 256 

DID  GENERAL  CUSTER  COMMIT  SUICIDE  ? .  .270 


Vlll  ILLUSTRATIONS 


ILLUSTKATIONS. 

PAOB. 

General  Forsythe 1 

The  Charge 13 

The  Hermit  Priest 24 

Little  Beaver 45 

Kicking  Bird 58 

Susie  Resume 96 

Sitting  Bull,  Crow  Eagle,  and  Buffalo  Bill 101 

Sa-tan-ta 104 

The  Mirage 119 

Wai.  Henderson 130 

O-ton-son-e-var 163 

Pacer's  Son — Chief  of  all  the  Apaches 166 

General  Sheridan 170 

Catching  Wild  Turkeys  in  Gen.  Sheridan's  Camp....  178 

Wolves  Attacking  a  Buffalo 191 

A  Lynching  Scene 238 

Mandan  Chief 240 

Mandan  Canoe 246 

Mandan  Village 248 

Kit  Carson 256 

Train  at  Pawnee  Rock 266 

General  Custer 270 

Little  River 273 

Sitting  Bull 277 


PREFACE. 


THESE  "Tales  of  the  Trail"  are  based  upon 
actual  facts  which  came  under  the  personal  ob- 
servation of  the  author,  whose  reputation  as  a 
writer  of  the  frontier  is  national.  His  other 
works  have  met  with  phenomenal  success,  and 
these  sketches,  which  have  appeared  from  time 
to  time  in  the  current  literature  of  the  United 
States,  are  now  compiled,  and  will  form  another 
interesting  series  of  stories  of  that  era  of  great 
adventures,  when  the  country  west  of  the  Mis- 
souri was  unknown  except  to  the  trappers, 
hunters,  and  army  officers. 

Some  of  the  characters  around  which  are 
woven  the  thrilling  incidents  of  these  "Tales" 
were  men  of  world -wide  reputation;  they  have 
long  since  joined  the  "choir  invisible,"  but  their 
names  as  pioneers  in  the  genesis  of  great  States 
which  then  formed  the  theater  of  their  exploits 
will  live  as  long  as  the  United  States  exists  as 
a  great  nation. 

However  improbable  to  the  uninitiated  the 
thrilling  experiences  of  the  individuals  who 


VI  PREFACE 

were  actors  in  the  scenes  depicted,  may  seem, 
they  are  a  proof  that  "truth  is  stranger  than 
fiction." 

It  is  fortunate  that  Colonel  Inman  during  his 
forty  years  on  the  extreme  frontier  was  such  a 
close  observer,  and  noted  from  time  to  time  these 
stories  of  the  frontier  which  form  such  an  inter- 
esting part  of  our  Americana. 

JAMES  L.  KING, 

State  Librarian. 
TOPEKA,  KANSAS,  March  1, 1898. 


GEN.  FORSYTHE  AT  THE  ARRICKAREE. 


A   THRILLING   BTORY   OP  INDIAN  WARFARE. 


WAS  sitting  in  my 
office  at  Fort  Har- 
ker  on  a  warm  eve- 
ning in  the  latter 
part  of  September, 
1868,  musing  over  a 
pipeful  of  "Lone 
Jack,"  upon  the 
possible  extent  of 
the  impending  In- 
dian war,  which  had 
already  been  plan- 
ned by  Gen.  Sheri- 
dan, in  the  seclusion 
of  my  own  quarters, 
only  the  night  be- 
fore. It  was  rapid- 
ly growing  dark ;  the  somber  line  of  the  twilight 
curve  had  almost  met  the  western  horizon,  and 
only  the  faintest  tinge  of  purple  beneath  marked 


GENERAL  FORSYTHE. 


2  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

the  intermedium  between  the  gloaming  and  the 
ray  less  sky. 

Nothing  disturbed  my  revery  as  I  wandered  in 
my  imagination  over  the  bleak  expanse  of  the 
Arkansas,  Cimarron  and  Canadian  rivers,  so  soon 
to  be  the  scene  of  active  operations,  except  the 
monotonous  clicking  of  the  relay  in  the  window 
of  the  next  room,  where  the  Government  night 
operator  was  on  duty,  who  was  also  meditating  in 
the  darkness. 

The  terrible  massacres  on  Spillman  creek,  only 
a  few  weeks  before,  still  furnished  food  for  venge- 
ful thoughts  that  would  not  down,  as  images 
of  the  murdered  women  and  little  ones  rose  in 
horrible  visions  upon  the  thick  night  before  me. 

The  dismal  howl  of  a  hungry  wolf  borne  upon 
the  still  air  from  the  timbered  recesses  of  the 
Smoky  added  to  the  weird  aspect  that  my  sur- 
roundings were  rapidly  assuming,  and  there  seemed 
some  portentous  and  indescribable  thing  bearing 
down  upon  the  place. 

Suddenly  the  operator — while  the  clicking  of 
the  instruments  became  more  nervous  and  varied 
from  their  monotone  of  the  whole  evening  —  ex- 
claimed, "  My  Godl  Major,  what's  this?  " 

"What  is  what?"  said  I,  jumping  from  my 
chair  and  rushing  to  his  side.  Quickly  lighting 


FOK8YTHE  AT  THE  ARRICKAREE          6 

his  little  lamp  and  seizing  his  pencil,  he  wrote 
upon  a  blank  as  I  looked  over  his  shoulder  and 
read — while  the  clicking  grew  more  convulsive 
still  —  these  words: 

"Gen.  Forsythe  surrounded  by  Indians  on  the 
Republican .  Lieut.  Beecher ,  the  doctor,  and  many 
of  the  scouts  killed ;  nearly  the  entire  command, 
including  the  general,  wounded.  Stillwell,  one  of 
the  scouts,  ran  the  gauntlet  of  the  savages,  and 
brings  report.  Col.  Carpenter,  Tenth  Cavalry, 
and  his  command,  leave  immediately  to  relieve 
them." 

This  was  a  fragment  of  the  whole  dispatch  going 
over  the  wires  from  Fort  Hays  to  Fort  Leaven- 
worth  and  Washington.  We  had  taken  enough  of 
it  to  know  that  a  terrible  disaster  had  befallen 
the  gallant  Forsythe,  of  Sheridan's  staff,  and  his 
plucky  band  of  scouts,  who  were  all  civilians  and 
Kansans. 

The  headquarters  of  Gen.  Sheridan,  who  was  at 
the  date  of  this  narrative  in  command  of  the  De- 
partment of  the  Missouri,  were  temporarily  estab- 
lished at  Fort  Harker.  He  was  consummating  his 
arrangements  for  a  winter  campaign  against  the 
hostile  tribes,  and  the  idea  suggested  itself  that  a 
body  of  carefully  selected  men,  composed  of  the 


4  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

best  material  to  be  found  on  the  frontier,  under 
the  leadership  of  an  experienced  officer,  could 
effect  excellent  results. 

These  scouts,  as  they  were  to  be  termed,  were  to 
go  anywhere,  and  act  entirely  independent  of  the 
regularly  organized  troops  about  to  take  the  field. 

Generals  Ouster  and  Sully,  the  next  in  rank  to 
Sheridan,  both  already  famous  as  Indian  fighters, 
coincided  with  this  view  of  the  commanding  gen- 
eral ;  and  it  was  determined  to  pick  fifty  equipped 
frontiersmen  at  once,  commission  Forsythe  as 
their  leader,  who  in  the  incipiency  of  the  move- 
ment modestly  solicited  the  responsible  position. 

The  fifty-four  men  were  chosen  from  an  aggre- 
gate of  more  than  2,000  employed  by  the  Govern- 
ment at  various  positions  at  Forts  Harker  and 
Hays.  The  reader  may  rest  assured  that  only 
those  were  accepted  who  possessed  the  essential 
qualifications  of  indomitable  courage,  wonderful 
endurance,  perfect  markmaiiship,  and  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  Indian  character. 

Gen.  Forsythe  chose  for  his  lieutenant  his  par- 
ticular friend  F.  H.  Beecher,  of  the  Third  In- 
fantry, a  nephew  of  the  celebrated  Brooklyn 
clergyman. 

Some  days  were  occupied  at  Fort  Harker  in  fit- 
ting out  the  little  expedition,  but  no  unneces- 


FOR8YTHE  AT  THE  ARRICKAREE         5 

sary  equipage  or  superfluous  camp  paraphernalia 
formed  any  part  of  the  supplies. 

There  were  no  tents  or  wagons.  Pack-mules 
carried  the  commissary  stores,  which  were  of  the 
simplest  character,  and  as  the  object  of  the  party 
was  war,  its  impedimenta  were  reduced  to  the 
minimum. 

Each  man  was  mounted  on  an  excellent  horse, 
his  armament  a  breech-loading  rifle  and  two  re- 
volvers. 

This  troop  of  brave  men  left  Harker  for  Hays 
in  the  latter  part  of  August,  from  which  point 
their  arduous  duties  were  commenced. 

On  the  29th  of  that  month,  all  the  prelimina- 
ries for  taking  the  field  having  been  completed 
and  their  surgeon  joined,  they  marched  out  of  the 
fort  on  their  perilous  mission.  After  scouting 
over  a  large  area  for  several  days  without  meeting 
any  sign  of  the  Cheyennes,  they  concluded  to  go  to 
Wallace  to  recuperate  and  refit. 

Sometime  during  the  second  week  in  September 
the  Indians  made  a  raid  on  a  Government  wagon 
train  near  Sheridan  station,  on  the  Kansas  Pacific 
Railroad,  about  twelve  miles  east  of  Wallace.  As 
soon  as  the  news  reached  the  fort  over  the  wires, 
Forsythe  and  Irs  little  band  of  scouts  started  to 
intercept  the  savages  on  their  retreat. 


6  TALES   OF    THE    TRAIL 

Next  morning  the  little  command  struck  the 
fresh  trail  of  the  Indians,  and  by  forced  marches 
came  so  close  that  they  compelled  them  to  sepa- 
rate into  insignificant  detachments,  but  night 
coming  rapidly  on,  the  General  lost  the  trail. 
The  conclusion  was,  after  a  consultation  with  the 
best  plainsmen  among  the  party,  that  the  Indians 
would  naturally  go  northward;  so  it  was  deter- 
mined to  take  that  direction  in  pursuit. 

The  scouts  continued  their  course  for  more 
than  a  week  without  the  least  trifling  incident 
to  relieve  the  wearisome  monotony  of  the  march. 

Suddenly,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  eighth  day, 
as  they  were  approaching  the  bluffs  of  the  Re- 
publican river,  they  discovered  an  immense  trail 
still  leading  to  the  north.  The  signs  indicated 
that  a  large  body  of  warriors,  with  pack  animals, 
women  and  children,  and  lodges  of  a  big  camp, 
had  recently  camped  there. 

It  was  growing  dark,  and  rather  than  take  the 
chances  of  losing  this  trail  in  the  night,  it  was 
determined  to  bivouac  in  the  vicinity,  rest  the 
animals,  and  continue  the  pursuit  at  the  first 
streak  of  dawn. 

It  was  well  that  this  course  was  decided  upon, 
or  there  would  have  been  none  left  to  tell  the 
story  of  the  fight,  as  the  result  will  show.  The 


FOBBYTHE  AT  THE  ARBICKAREE          7 

spot  selected  for  the  bivouac  had  some  slight 
strategic  value,  and  was  for  that  reason  chosen 
by  the  General,  after  it  had  been  pointed  out  by 
two  of  his  men,  Tom  Murphy  and  Jack  Still  well  ; 
though  he  had  no  idea  at  the  time  that  any 
benefit  would  result  from  their  judgment  in  this 
particular.  It  was  an  elongated  low  mound  of 
sand  (such  as  are  seen  at  intervals  in  the  Ar- 
kansas) which  the  Arrickaree  fork  of  the  Repub- 
lican at  this  time  embraced  (as  the  Cheyenne 
does  the  Black  Hills),  forming  an  island. 

If  this  trail  had  not  been  struck,  it  was  the 
intention  to  have  gone  back  to  Wallace  for  pro- 
visions, as  only  sufficient  for  one  day  remained ; 
but  upon  prospects  of  a  fight,  it  was  unanimously 
agreed  to  go,  and  take  the  chances  of  finding 
something  to  eat. 

In  the  early  gray  of  the  next  morning,  while 
the  stars  were  still  twinkling  and  at  the  hour 
when  sleep  oppresses  more  than  at  any  other 
time,  the  sentinels  posted  on  the  hills  above  the 
island  yelled,  "  Indians!  " 

In  a  moment  the  camp  was  awake.  With  rifle 
in  hand,  each  scout  rushed  for  the  lariat  to 
which  his  horse  was  picketed,  knowing  of  course 
that  the  first  effort  on  the  part  of  the  Indians 
would  be  to  stampede  the  animals.  As  it  was, 


8  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

a  small  party  of  them  dashed  iu  with  a  horrid 
whoop,  and  shaking  their  buffalo  robes,  suc- 
ceeded in  running  off  a  small  portion  of  the 
pack-mules,  besides  one  or  two  of  the  horses. 

A  few  shots  fired  by  the  most  advanced  of  the 
scouts  scattered  the  Indians,  and  quiet  reigned 
again  for  a  few  minutes. 

Almost  immediately,  however,  before  the  scouts 
had  completed  saddling  their  horses — which  the 
General  had  ordered — one  of  the  guides  nearest 
Forsythe  happening  to  look  up,  could  not  help 
giving  vent  to  the  expression,  "Great  heavens  I 
General,  see  the  Indians  1  " 

Well  might  he  be  excited.  Over  the  hills, 
from  the  west  and  north,  along  the  river  on 
the  opposite  bank  —  everywhere,  and  in  every 
direction,  they  made  their  appearance.  Finely 
mounted,  in  full  war  paint,  their  long  scalp- 
locks  braided  with  eagles'  feathers,  and  with  all 
the  paraphernalia  of  a  barbarous  war  party,  with 
wild  and  exultant  shouts,  on  they  came. 

It  was  a  desperate-looking  preponderance  of 
brute  force  and  savage  subtlety,  against  the  cool 
and  calm  judgment  of  the  disciplined  plainsmen. 
But  the  General,  without  glancing  at  the  hell  in 
front  and  all  around  him,  with  only  the  lines  of 
determination  in  his  face  a  little  more  marked, 


FORBYTHE  AT  THE  ARRICKAREE          9 

grasping  the  terrible  picture  before  him,  stoically 
ordered  his  men  to  take  possession  of  the  sand 
mound  with  their  horses,  and  then  determined, 
almost  against  hope,  to  accept  the  wager  of 
battle. 

It  happened,  fortunately,  that  on  this  island 
were  growing  some  stunted  shrubs,  to  which  the 
animals  were  fastened,  their  bodies  forming  a  cor- 
don, inside  of  which  the  luckless  scouts  prepared 
for  the  demoniacal  charge  which  they  knew  must 
come  with  its  terrible  uncertainty  in  a  few  min- 
utes. 

They  had  scarcely  secured  their  animals,  when 
like  the  shock  of  a  whirlwind  on  came  the  sav- 
ages, and  the  awfully  unequal  battle  commenced. 

It  was  just  the  break  of  dawn;  the  Indians, 
taking  advantage  of  the  uncertain  light,  dis- 
mounted from  their  ponies,  and  creeping  within 
easy  range,  poured  in  a  murderous  fire  upon  the 
scouts. 

The  Indians  were  splendidly  armed  as  usual, 
through  the  munificence  of  the  Government,  by 
its  apathy  in  preventing  renegade  white  men  or 
traders  from  supplying  them. 

When  the  full  morning  came,  which  had  been 
anxiously  waited  for  by  the  scouts,  then  they 
first  realized  their  desperate  situation.  Appar- 


10  TALES   OP   THE    TRAIL 

ently  as  numerous  as  the  sand-grains  of  their 
little  fortification,  the  Indians  hemmed  them  in 
on  all  sides.  More  than  a  thousand  hideously 
painted  and  screaming  warriors  surrounded  them, 
with  all  their  hatred  of  the  race  depicted  on  their 
fiendish  countenances,  in  anticipation  of  the  vic- 
tory which  seemed  so  certain. 

Scattered  among  these,  out  of  rifle-range,  were 
the  squaws  and  children  of  the  aggregated  band, 
watching  with  gloating  eyes  the  progress  of  the 
battle,  while  the  hills  reechoed  their  diabolical 
death-chant  and  the  howling  of  the  medicine- 
men inspiring  the  young  warriors  to  deeds  of 
daring. 

No  one  can  form  the  slightest  conception  of 
the  horrid  picture  spread  before  the  scouts  on 
the  clear  gray  of  that  morning,  unless  he  or  she 
has  realized  it  in  the  hostile  encounters  with  the 
hostile  tribes  on  the  plains.  Language  is  inade- 
quate, and  all  the  attempts  at  word-painting 
fall  so  short  of  the  reality  that  it  were  better  left 
wrapped  in  its  terrible  incomprehensibleness. 

The  General  and  his  brave  men  took  in  their 
chances  at  a  glance.  They  saw  little  hope  in  the 
prospect,  but  they  determined,  however,  never  to 
be  taken  alive — a  thousand  deaths  by  the  bullet 
were  preferable  to  that ;  so  made  up  their  minds 


FOR8YTHE  AT  THE  ARRICKAREE        11 

to  fight  to  the  bitter  end,  which  would  only  come 
when  the  ammunition  was  exhausted  or  them- 
selves killed. 

To  this  end  they  commenced  to  intrench  as 
best  they  could,  by  scraping  holes  in  the  sand 
with  the  only  implement  at  their  command — 
their  hands.  They  succeeded  in  making  a  sort  of 
rifle-pit  of  their  position,  but  before  the  work 
was  completed,  two  of  the  scouts  were  killed  out- 
right, and  many  wounded  —  among  the  latter  the 
General  himself. 

Owing  to  the  dreadful  firing  of  the  Indians, 
who  continually  charged  down  upon  the  island, 
the  doctor  was  compelled  to  abandon  the  care  of 
the  wounded  and  become  a  combatant;  he  did 
excellent  work  with  his  rifle,  but  a  bullet  soon 
pierced  his  brain,  and  he  too  fell  dead. 

In  a  few  seconds  after  the  doctor's  death,  in 
the  midst  of  a  terrible  onslaught  by  the  Indians, 
the  General  was  again  struck — this  time  near  the 
ankle,  the  ball  perforating  the  bone  as  perfectly 
as  if  done  with  an  auger. 

The  firing  of  the  scouts  had  not  all  this  time 
been  without  telling  effect  upon  the  Indians  — 
many  a  painted  warrior  had  bitten  the  dust  be- 
fore the  sun  was  two  hours  high.  At  each  succes- 
sive charge  of  the  redskins,  the  scouts,  cool  and 


12  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

careful,  and  deliberate,  took  aim,  and  when  their 
rifles  were  discharged  each  put  a  savage  hors  de 
combat  —  there  was  no  ammunition  wasted! 

Nor  had  the  besieged  escaped  from  the  fearful 
onset  of  their  enemies :  besides  the  casualties  re- 
lated, nearly  all  the  horses  had  been  killed — in 
fact,  before  noon  all  but  one  had  fallen,  and  it  is 
told  that  when  he  too  was  killed,  one  of  the 
warriors  exclaimed  in  English,  "There  goes  the 
last  horse,  anyway ! ' ' 

At  this  juncture,  with  all  their  horses  killed  or 
wounded,  the  Indians  determined  upon  one  more 
grand  charge  which  would  settle  the  unequal  con- 
test. So  they  rallied  all  their  forces  and  hazarded 
their  reputation  upon  the  aggregated  assault. 

This  charging  column  was  composed  of  about 
one  hundred  and  fifty  ' '  dog  soldiers ' '  and  nearly 
five  hundred  more  of  the  B  rules,  Cheyenues,  and 
Arapahoes,  all  under  the  command  of  the  cele- 
brated chief  "Roman  Nose." 

Superbly  mounted,  almost  naked,  although  in 
full  war  dress,  and  painted  in  the  most  hideous 
manner,  formed  with  a  front  of  about  sixty  men, 
they  awaited  in  the  greatest  confidence  the  signal 
of  their  chief  to  charge. 

Their  leader  at  first  signaled  to  the  dismounted 
men  beyond  this  line  of  horsemen  to  fire  into  the 


FORSYTHE  AT  THE  ARRICKAREE 


13 


scouts,  and  thus  make  his  contemplated  charge 
more  effective.  At  the  moment  of  the  fusillade, 
seeing  the  little  garrison  was  stunned  by  the  fire 
of  the  dismounted  Indians,  and  rightly  judging 
that  now  if  ever  was  the  proper  time  to  charge, 
Roman  Nose  and  his  band  of  mounted  warriors, 


with  a  wild  ringing  war-whoop,  echoed  by  the 
women  and  children  on  the  hills,  started  forward. 

On  they  came,  presenting  even  to  the  brave 
men  awaiting  their  charge,  a  most  superb  sight. 

Soon  they  were  within  the  range  of  the  rifles  of 
their  friends,  and  of  course  the  dismounted  In- 
dians had  to  slacken  their  fire  for  fear  of  hitting 
their  own  warriors. 

And  this  was  the  opportunity  for  the  scouts.- 


14  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

"  Now !"  shouted  Forsythe ;  and  the  scouts,  spring- 
ing to  their  knees,  cast  their  eyes  coolly  along  the 
barrels  of  their  rifles,  and  opened  upon  the  ad- 
vancing savages  a  deadly  fire. 

Unchecked,  undaunted,  on  dashed  the  warriors. 
Steadily  rang  the  sharp  report,  of  the  rifles  of  the 
frontiersmen.  Roman  Nose  falls  dead  from  his 
horse ;  "  Medicine  Man  "  is  killed ;  and  for  an  in- 
stant the  column,  now  within  ten  feet  of  the 
scouts,  hesitates — falters. 

A  cheer  from  the  scouts,  who  perceive  the  effect 
of  their  well-directed  fire,  as  the  Indians  begin  to 
break  and  scatter  in  every  direction,  unwilling  to 
rush  into  a  hand-to-hand  struggle.  A  few  more 
shots,  and  the  Indians  are  forced  back  beyond 
range. 

Forsythe  inquires  anxiously,  "  Can  they  do  bet- 
ter than  that,  Grover?  " 

"I  have  been  on  the  plains,  General,  since  a 
boy,  and  never  saw  such  a  charge  as  that  before." 

"All  right,  then ;  we  are  good  for  them." 

It  was  in  this  grand  charge,  led  in  person  by 
their  greatest  of  all  warriors,  Roman  Nose,  that 
Lieut.  Beecher  was  mortally  wounded.  He  suf- 
fered intensely,  and  lingered  some  hours  before 
his  manly  spirit  was  extinguished. 

He  and  I  were  warmly  attached  to  one  another. 


FOR8YTHE  AT  THE  ARRICKAREE        15 

I  knew  full  well  the  generous  impulses  of  his 
warm  young  heart,  and  his  perfect  unselfishness. 
He  was  brave,  the  very  soul  of  honor,  and  a 
favorite  in  all  garrisons. 

Before  night  closed  in  on  the  terrible  tragedy 
of  that  day,  the  Indians  charged  on  the  weary 
and  beleagured  scouts  again  and  again,  but  were 
as  often  driven  back  by  the  dreadful  accuracy  of 
the  rifles  of  the  besieged,  with  an  increasing  loss 
each  time. 

The  darkness  which  had  been  earnestly  looked 
for  at  last  brought  the  welcome  respite,  and  it 
was  made  possible  for  the  unfortunate  men  to 
steal  a  moment's  rest,  that  was  needed,  oh,  how 
much  I 

Hungry,  exhausted,  with  an  empty  commis- 
sariat, every  animal  dead,  their  comrades  lying 
stark  upon  the  dreary  sand,  and  a  great  number 
writhing  in  all  the  agony  of  torturing  wounds ;  a 
relentless  enemy  ever  watching ;  no  skilled  hand 
to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of  the  dying,  and  the 
only  hope  of  help  that  might  never  come,  more 
than  a  hundred  miles  away. 

Think  of  that ;  grasp  it  if  you  can  I 

Later,  while  the  night  yet  thickened,  prepara- 
tions were  made  to  meet  the  events  that  were  sure 
to  come  with  the  morning's  light,  and  the  little 


16  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

fort — :for  it  had  certainly  now  reached  the  dig- 
nity of  that  title — was  made  still  stronger.  For 
gabions,  the  swollen  carcasses  of  the  dead  horses 
were  used,  and  huge  slices  were  cut  from  their 
thighs  for  food.  Thank  God,  the  torturings  of 
thirst  were  not  added  to  their  other  sufferings,  for 
water  was  easily  obtained  by  digging  a  short  dis- 
tance. 

Thus  strengthened,  a  midnight  council  of  war 
was  held  in  whisperings,  and  it  was  determined  to 
send  two  of  their  number  to  Fort  Wallace,  as  des- 
perate as  the  undertaking  was.  A  mere  boy, 
Still  well,  and  another,  Truedell,  expressed  their 
willingness  to  make  the  attempt. 

The  brave  men  crawled  from  the  "island"  to 
run  the  gauntlet  of  the  watchful  savages,  ever  on 
the  alert  to  take  advantage  of  the  least  unfavor- 
able demonstration  on  the  part  of  their  prey,  as 
they  fully  believed  them. 

"We  will  leave  them  making  their  way  cau- 
tiously but  hopefully  in  the  darkness,  for  it  is 
not  the  purpose  of  the  writer  at  this  time  to  tell 
of  the  noble  efforts  of  these  brave  messengers  in 
their  hairbreadth  escapes  on  their  lonesome  and 
perilous  journey ;  but  let  us  turn  to  the  worn-out 
and  wounded  band  of  heroes  again,  to  learn  how 
they  fared  during  the  long  days  before  help  could 


FORSYTHE  AT  THE  ARRICKAREE         17 

possibly  reach  them,  even  were  Stillwell  and  his 
companion  able  to  reach  Wallace. 

The  sun  rose  in  all  the  splendor  of  a  Kansas 
autumn  morning,  but  the  landscape  bore  the  same 
horrid  features  of  the  day  before.  All  through 
the  weary  hours  the  Indians  kept  up  an  incessant 
firing,  though  no  serious  charge  was  attempted — 
they  had  had  more  than  they  had  anticipated,  in 
their  efforts  in  that  direction  yesterday.  The 
scouts,  now  pretty  effectually  intrenched,  suffered 
but  little  from  the  wild  firing  of  their  besiegers, 
but  it  was  annoying,  and  kept  the  brave  men  ever 
prepared  for  a  possible  charge,  the  result  of  which 
might  not  be  so  fortunate  as  former  ones. 

Night  again  came  to  throw  its  mantle  of  rest 
upon  the  little  band,  and  shortly  after  dark  two 
more  scouts  were  sent  out  to  reach  Fort  Wallace, 
if  possible ;  but  they  failed  to  get  beyond  the  line 
of  watchful  savages,  and  were  compelled  to  aban- 
don the  idea. 

This  unsuccessful  attempt  to  go  for  help  cast  a 
gloom  over  the  little  command,  for  it  could  not 
yet  be  known  what  had  been  the  fate  of  the  other 
two  who  had  gone  out  the  night  previously. 

The  next  day  the  state  of  affairs  assumed  a 
more  cheerful  aspect — if  that  could  be  possible. 
The  squaws  and  children  had  disappeared,  indi- 
—2 


18  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

eating  a  retreat  upon  the  part  of  the  Indians,  al- 
though they  still  kept  up  their  firing  at  intervals : 
perhaps  they,  too,  were  getting  short  of  ammuni- 
tion and  provisions. 

In  the  afternoon  the  savages  hoisted  a  white  rag 
upon  a  pole  and  expressed  a  desire  to  talk,  but 
our  heroes  were  too  wary  to  be  caught  with  such 
chaff  as  that,  for  with  Indians  a  flag  of  truce 
means  a  massacre,  half  the  time. 

That  night  two  more  men  were  sent  out,  and 
these  carried  that  famous  dispatch  of  Forsythe's, 
which  should  hold  its  place  in  history  with  that 
other  memorable  one  of  Grant's:  "I  intend  to 
fight  it  out  on  this  line  if  it  takes  all  summer." 
Forsythe's  read : 

"I  am  on  a  little  island,  and  have  still  plenty 
of  ammunition  left.  We  are  living  on  mule-  and 
horse-meat,  and  are  entirely  out  of  rations.  If  it 
were  not  for  so  many  wounded  I  would  come  on 
and  take  the  chance  of  whipping  them  if  attacked. 
They  are  evidently  sick  of  their  bargain.  I  can 
hold  out  six  days  longer  if  absolutely  necessary ; 
but  lose  no  time." 

The  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  on  the  now  his- 
toric island,  broke  somewhat  more  cheerful  still. 
The  Indians  could  be  seen  moving  rapidly  away, 


FOR8YTHE  AT  THE  ARRICKAREE        19 

only  a  few  comparatively  remaining  in  sight,  to 
wait  till  exhaustion  and  starvation  should  place 
the  scouts  in  their  power.  They  little  knew  the 
metal  of  the  men  lying  behind  those  breastworks 
of  rotten  carcasses,  or  they  too  would  have  gone 
with  the  old  men,  women  and  children  of  the 
tribe. 

A  few  shots  were  fired  by  the  scouts  in  response 
to  the  occasional  random  fusillade  of  the  Indi- 
ans :  they  contented  themselves  with  saving  their 
ammunition  for  a  possible  last  grand  act  in  the 
drama,  only  shooting  when  an  Indian  came  within 
certain  range,  when  he  was  sure  to  be  sent  to  the 
"happy  hunting-grounds." 

Night  again  came  with  its  relative  rest,  and 
then  another  weary  day  of  watching  and  waiting, 
without  any  special  demonstration  on  the  part  of 
the  Indians. 

New  horrors  now  made  their  appearance  in  the 
shape  of  gangrened  wounds,  and  suffering  for 
food.  The  putrid  flesh  of  the  dead  horses  and 
mules  was  all  that  remained  to  support  life,  and 
however  revolting,  it  had  to  be  swallowed.  The 
nauseating  effluvia  of  the  rapidly  decaying  car- 
casses, too,  made  the  place  almost  intolerable, 
and  so  insufferable  did  it  become  that  the  General 
told  those  who  were  disheartened  to  go ;  but  all  to 


20  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

a  man,  to  their  honor  be  it  recorded,  refused, 
electing  to  remain  with  their  compauious-in-arms 
— to  be  rescued,  or  die  with  them. 

Two  more  days  of  torture,  and  then,  on  the 
ridge  between  them  and  the  golden  sunlight 
gleamed  the  bright  bayonets  of  Col.  Carpenter 
and  his  column  of  "the  boys  in  blue." 

Their  Havelock  had  reached  this  American 
Lucknow,  and  cheer  after  cheer — feeble  though 
they  were  —  went  up  from  the  little  island,  and 
our  story  closes  with  the  rescue  of  these  brave 
men. 


GENERAL  FORSYTHE  (himself  wounded  in  both 
legs)  gives  a  very  graphic  description  of  the  charge 
of  the  Indians,  and  the  appearance  of  their  hero 
and  chief,  Roman  Nose.  He  says : 

"As  Roman  Nose  dashed  gallantly  forward  and 
swept  into  the  open  at  the  head  of  his  superb 
command,  he  was  the  very  beau-ideal  of  an  Indian 
chief.  Mounted  on  a  large,  clean-limbed  chest- 
nut horse,  he  sat  well  forward  on  his  bareback 
charger,  his  knees  passing  under  a  horsehair  lariat 
that  twice  loosely  encircled  the  animal's  body, 
his  horse's  bridle  grasped  in  his  left  hand,  which 
was  also  closely  wound  in  its  flowing  mane,  and 


FOR8YTHE  AT  THE  ARRICKAREE        21 

at  the  same  time  clutched  his  rifle  at  the  guard, 
the  butt  of  which  lay  partially  across  the  animal's 
neck,  while  its  barrel,  crossing  diagonally  in  front 
of  his  body,  rested  slightly  against  the  hollow  of 
his  left  arm,  leaving  his  right  free  to  direct  the 
course  of  his  men.  He  was  a  man  over  six  feet 
three  inches  in  height,  beautifully  formed,  and 
save  for  a  crimson  silk  sash  knotted  around  his 
waist  and  his  moccasins  on  his  feet,  perfectly 
naked.  His  face  was  hideously  painted  in  alter- 
nate lines  of  red  and  black,  and  his  head  crowned 
with  a  magnificent  war-bonnet,  from  which,  just 
above  his  temples  and  curving  slightly  forward, 
stood  up  two  short  black  buffalo  horns,  while  its 
ample  length  of  eagles'  feathers  and  herons' 
plumes  trailed  wildly  on  the  wind  behind  him; 
and  as  he  came  swiftly  on  at  the  head  of  his  charg- 
ing warriors,  in  all  his  barbaric  strength  and 
grandeur,  he  proudly  rode  that  day  the  most  per- 
fect type  of  a  savage  warrior  it  has  been  my  lot  to 
see.  Turning  his  face  for  an  instant  toward  the 
women  and  children  of  the  united  tribes,  who  lit- 
erally by  thousands  were  watching  the  fight  from 
the  crest  of  the  low  bluffs  back  from  the  river's 
bank,  he  raised  his  right  arm  and  waved  his  right 
hand  with  a  royal  gesture,  in  answer  to  their  wild 
cries  of  rage  and  encouragement  as  he  and  his  com- 


22  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

maud  swept  down  upon  us;  and  again,  facing 
squarely  towards  where  we  lay,  he  drew  his  body  to 
its  full  height  and  shook  his  clenched  fist  defiantly 
at  us ;  then,  throwing  back  his  head  and  glancing 
skyward,  he  suddenly  struck  the  palm  of  his  hand 
across  his  mouth  and  gave  tongue  to  a  war-cry 
that  I  have  never  yet  heard  equaled  in  power  and 
intensity.  Scarcely  had  its  echos  reached  the 
river's  bank  when  it  was  caught  up  by  each  and 
every  one  of  the  charging  warriors  with  an  energy 
that  baffles  description,  and  answered  back  with 
blood-curdling  yells  of  exultation  and  prospective 
vengeance  by  the  women  and  children  on  the 
river's  bluff  and  by  the  Indians  who  lay  in  am- 
bush around  us.  On  they  came  at  a  swinging 
gallop,  rending  the  air  with  their  wild  war- 
whoops,  each  individual  warrior  in  all  his  bravery 
of  war  paint  and  long  braided  scalp-lock  tipped 
with  eagles'  feathers,  and  all  stark  naked  but  for 
their  cartridge  belts  and  moccasins,  keeping  their 
line  almost  perfectly,  with  a  front  of  about  sixty 
men  all  riding  horseback,  with  only  a  loose  lariat 
about  their  horses'  bodies,  and  about  a  yard  apart, 
and  with  a  depth  of  six  or  seven  ranks,  forming 
together  a  compact  body  of  massive  fighting 
strength,  and  of  almost  resistless  weight.  '  Boldly 
they  rode  and  well,'  with  their  horses'  bridles  in 


FOR8YTHE  AT  THE  ARRICKAREE        28 

their  left  hands,  while  with  their  right  they 
grasped  their  rifles  at  the  guard  and  held  them 
squarely  in  front  of  themselves,  resting  lightly 
upon  their  horses'  necks. 

"  Riding  about  five  paces  in  front  of  the  center 
of  the  line,  and  twirling  his  heavy  Springfield  rifle 
about  his  head  as  if  it  were  a  wisp  of  straw, 
Roman  Nose  recklessly  led  the  charge  with  a 
bravery  that  could  only  be  equaled  but  not  ex- 
celled ;  while  their  medicine-man,  an  equally 
brave  yet  older  chief,  rode  slightly  in  advance  of 
the  left  of  the  charging  column. 

"  To  say  that  I  was  surprised  at  this  splendid 
exhibition  of  pluck  and  discipline,  is  to  put  it 
mildly;  and  to  say,  further,  that  for  an  instant 
or  two  I  was  fairly  lost  in  admiration  of  the 
glorious  charge,  is  simply  to  state  the  truth  — 
for  it  was  far  and  away  beyond  anything  I  had 
heard  of,  read  about,  or  even  imagined  regarding 
Indian  warfare." 


EL  SOLITARIO,  THE   HERMIT   PRIEST   OF 
THE   OLD   SANTA  FE   TRAIL. 


'No  stream  from  its  source 
Flows  seaward,  how  lonely  so  'er  its  course, 
But  some  land  is  gladden'd.    No  star  ever  rose 
And  set  without  influence  somewhere.    Who  knows 
What  earth  needs  from  earth's  lowliest  creatures? 
No  life 

Can  be  pure  in  its  purpose,  and  strong  in  its  strife, 
And  all  life  not  be  purer  and  stronger  thereby." 

—  OWEN  MEREDITH. 


HE  tourist  en  route  to 
the  Pacific  coast  can- 
not fail  observing  on 
his  right  a  huge,  rela- 
tively isolated  peak, 
cutting  the  incompar- 
ably clear  mid-conti- 
nent sky,  almost  im- 
mediately after  the 
train  emerges  from 
the  picturesque  caiioq 
of  El  Moro,  and  com- 
mences to  descend  the 
long  gradual  slope  to 


THE   HERMIT  PRIEST. 


24 


THE    HERMIT    PRIEST.  25 

the  quaint  old  Mexican  village  of  Las  Vegas, 
New  Mexico.  Its  scarred  and  verdureless  front 
looms  up  grandly  in  the  beautifully  serrated 
landscape,  of  which  it  is  the  most  conspicuous 
object.  More  prominently  defined  than  any 
other  individual  elevation  of  the  Taos  Range 
visible  from  the  point  of  observation,  the  shadow 
of  its  irregular  contour  reaches  far  out  over  the 
lesser  mountains  beneath,  the  moment  the  sun 
has  crossed  the  meridian  of  its  crest. 

At  its  foot,  grassy  little  valleys  stretch  east- 
wardly,  which  are  cultivated  by  the  primitive 
Mexicans  under  a  system  of  irrigation  as  primi- 
tive as  themselves  —  simple  earth  ditches,  involv- 
ing a  very  limited  knowledge  of  engineering. 

Foaming  little  torrents  splash  and  sparkle  in 
the  sunshine,  as  they  course  through  the  fertile 
intervales.  Their  sources  are  cool  mountain 
springs  hidden  in  the  dark  recesses  of  the  tower- 
ing range, which  were, until  the  restless  "Gringo" 
invaded  the  solitude  of  the  charming  region  at 
the  advent  of  the  iron  trail  to  erect  saw-mills, 
filled  with  that  most  epicurean  and  gamy  of  all 
the  finny  tribe,  the  speckled  brook -trout.  Now, 
the  disciple  of  the  revered  Walton  vainly  essays 
the  streams  with  elegant  modern  appliances  for 
lazy  methods  of  angling,  retiring  disgusted,  as 


26  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

the  listless  native,  answering  his  interrogatory  of 
"Where  have  they  all  gone?"  with  a  character- 
istic shrug,  and  his  ever-ready  "  Quien  sabe?  " 
quietly  opens  his  little  ditch  to  let  the  tenantless 
water  overflow  his  limited  patch  of  corn,  beans, 
and  onions. 

Maybe,  in  the  sad  and  weird  mythology  of  those 
strange  people  the  Aztecs,  this  storm-beaten  spur 
of  the  Rockies  occupied  an  important  place. 
Their  Olympus,  or  Parnassus  perhaps,  for  not 
many  miles  remote,  on  the  bank  of  the  classic 
Pecos,  where  lie  the  ruins  of  the  once  fortified 
Cicuye,  referred  to  so  graphically  in  the  itinerary 
of  the  historian  of  Coronado's  wonderful  march 
in  search  of  the  "  Seven  Cities  of  Cibola,"  is  the 
reputed  birthplace  of  their  culture-hero,  Monte- 
zuma  (not  to  be  confounded  with  the  dynasty  of 
sovereigns  of  that  name),  who  was  the  Christ  of 
their  faith,  for  whose  second  advent  the  Pueblos, 
the  lineal  descendants  of  the  Aztecs,  look  for  so 
hopefully  with  the  rising  of  every  morning's  sun. 

Upon  the  summit  of  the  Rincon  de  Tecolote, 
"The  Owl's  Corner,"  now  known  as  "El  Cumbre 
del  Solitario  "  (  The  Hermit's  Peak),  as  this  grand 
old  sentinel  of  the  range  is  called  by  the  Mexi- 
cans, an  area  comprising  several  acres,  there  is  a 
remarkable  cave.  Around  this  natural  grotto  at 


THE    HERMIT   PRIEST  27 

such  a  great  elevation,  are  clustered  by  the  simple 
natives  the  most  cherished  memories  of  the  hum- 
ble and  beloved  curious  individual  who  once  occu- 
pied the  sequestered  spot.  It  is  sacred  ground 
with  them,  upon  which  no  sacrilege  would  for  a 
moment  be  brooked. 

Near  its  narrow  entrance  a  spring  of  clear  cold 
water  gushes  out  of  the  indurated  rock,  which, 
after  flowing  for  a  short  distance  over  the  rounded 
pebbles  in  its  deeply  worn  bed,  tumbles  down  the 
precipitous  side  of  the  mountain  in  a  diminutive 
cascade,  joining  the  streams  in  the  valley  on  their 
resistless  way  to  the  sea.  A  few  scattered  pinons 
cast  a  grateful  shade  over  a  portion  of  the  gener- 
ally bald  blear  level  of  the  limited  plain,  and  at 
regular  distances  apart,  in  the  form  of  a  circle, 
are  twelve  rude  crosses,  typical  of  the  number  of 
the  Apostles.  They  were  erected  years  ago  by  the 
humble  Mexicans  living  in  the  hamlets  below,  in 
memory  of  the  deeply  religious  man  who  made  his 
home  in  this  sequestered  spot,  and  whose  name  is 
revered  only  a  degree  less  than  that  of  the  tute- 
lary saint  of  the  country,  Our  Lady  of  Guada- 
lupe.  On  certain  feast-days,  particularly  in 
midsummer,  large  fires  are  kept  burning  at  night, 
and  the  devotees  to  the  memory  of  the  cave's  once 
holy  occupant,  long  since  hastened  by  the  hand 


28  TALES   OF   THE    TRAIL 

of  an  assassin  to  the  unknown  beyond,  assemble 
there  under  the  stars,  and  in  a  most  devout  spirit 
perform  certain  ceremonies,  with  a  zeal  possible 
only  to  the  earnest  believers  in  that  ancient  and 
widely  disseminated  faith,  the  Catholic  religion. 

Of  the  history  of  this  remarkable  man,  who  by 
his  exemplary  life  made  such  an  impression  upon 
the  untutored  minds  of  a  large  number  of  the  de- 
graded primitive  New-Mexicans,  but  fragmentary 
leaves  have  been  obtainable.  To  intelligently 
understand  even  these,  the  reader  must  let  his 
mind  drift  backward  for  more  than  a  generation 
to  the  plains  of  central  Kansas,  and  learn  of  his 
advent  into  the  State  as  I  recall  it. 

It  was  late  in  the  spring  of  1861.  Our  Civil 
War  had  been  inaugurated  by  the  firing  upon 
Sumter,  and  the  loyal  States  were  preparing  for 
the  great  impending  struggle,  upon  the  result  of 
which  depended  the  destiny  of  the  Republic. 
Kansas  at  that  time,  so  far  as  its  agricultural 
possibilities  were  concerned,  was  not  materially 
considered  in  that  connection;  it  was  a  remote, 
relatively  unknown  Territory.  It  is  true,  its 
eastern  portion,  a  narrow  belt  contiguous  to  Mis- 
souri, had  a  bloody  political  history;  beyond 
which  fact,  it  was  merely  the  portal  to  the  vast 
mountain  region  on  the  west,  to  be  reached  only 


THE    HERMIT    PRIEST  29 

by  crossing  the  "Desert"  supposed  to  be  in- 
cluded within  the  new  State's  geographical  lim- 
its, through  which  ran  the  trail  to  far-off  Santa 
Fe  and  Chihuahua. 

There  arrived  one  morning  in  the  busy  little 
hamlet  of  Council  Grove,  Morris  county,  Kansas, 
during  the  month  of  May,  a  strange,  mysterious 
person.  He  attracted  much  attention,  for  he  was 
to  the  denizens  of  that  remote  frontier  town  as 
curious  a  personage  as  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask, 
or  the  awkward  Kaspar  Hauser,  whose  appearance 
at  the  gates  of  Nuremburg  once  startled  the  good 
people  of  that  staid  and  quiet  town,  hoary  with 
the  conservatism  of  centuries. 

The  stranger  who  came  so  unexpectedly  to 
Council  Grove  in  the  spring  of  1861,  evidently  a 
priest,  talked  but  little;  it  was  an  exceedingly 
difficult  task  to  engage  him  in  conversation,  so 
profoundly  did  he  seem  impressed  with  the  idea 
of  some  impending  danger.  He  acted  like  a 
startled  deer,  ever  on  the  alert  for  an  expected 
enemy,  and  weeks  rolled  by  before  two  or  three  of 
the  town's  most  reputable  citizens  could  gain  his 
confidence  sufficiently  to  learn  from  him  some- 
thing of  his  varied  and  romantic  history.  In  a 
simple  sketch,  as  this  is  intended  to  be  only, 
nothing  but  a  mere  outline  of  his  checkered  life 


80  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

previous  to  his  advent  in  America  can  be  pre- 
sented, as  it  was  gathered,  very  reluctantly  on  his 
part,  in  detached  fragments  at  odd  moments  in 
his  erratic  moods  of  communicativeness.  It  cer- 
tainly contains  enough  of  pathos,  suffering  and 
tragedy  to  form  the  web  of  a  thrilling  novel. 

Matteo  Boccaliui,  at  the  date  of  his  appearance 
in  Council  Grove,  was  about  fifty-five  years  old. 
He  possessed  the  eye  of  an  artist,  a  head  that 
was  beautifully  symmetrical,  with  a  classically 
moulded  face;  and  notwithstanding  his  age,  his 
hair,  of  which  he  had  a  profusion,  was  long, 
black,  and  lustrous  as  a  raven's  wing.  Yet  the 
heart-sorrows  he  had  experienced  were  indelibly 
impressed  upon  his  benevolent  countenance  in 
deeply  marked  lines.  He  was  a  lineal  descendant 
of  Trajano  Boccaliui,  the  witty  Italian  satirist, 
author  of  the  celebrated  "  Ragguagli  di  Parnaso," 
who  died  in  Venice  in  1613.  Matteo  was  born 
about  the  beginning  of  the  present  century,  in 
Capri,  that  charming  and  most  romantic  island 
of  Italy,  situated  in  the  Mediterranean,  at  the 
entrance  to  the  Bay  of  Naples,  twenty  miles  south 
of  the  beautiful  city  whose  name  the  bright  wa- 
ters bear. 

His  youth  was  passed  on  the  island,  in  the  city 
of  Capri,  the  seat  of  a  bishopric.  There  he  re- 


THE    HERMIT    PRIEST  81 

ceived  his  early  education,  devoting  himself  to 
the  Church,  and  commencing  those  theological 
studies  which  were  soon  to  be  the  cause  of  his 
sufferings,  his  wanderings,  and  eventually  his 
tragic  death. 

The  island  of  his  birth,  which  has  so  often  been 
sung  by  the  muse,  is  historic  as  well  as  pictur- 
esquely beautiful.  It  was  there  that  the  Roman 
emperor  Tiberius  passed  the  closing  decade  of  his 
life,  and  the  ruins  of  the  twelve  gorgeous  palaces 
he  erected  during  that  period  are  still  visible. 
Capri,  too,  as  tourists  well  remember,  is  famous 
for  a  cavern  called  the  "  Grotto  of  the  Nymphs," 
or  the  "Blue  Grotto."  Matteo  declared  it  was 
there  that  during  his  youth,  in  the  calm  recesses 
and  sequestered  nooks  of  that  delightful  under- 
ground retreat,  he  first  learned  to  love  the  com- 
panionship of  his  own  thoughts,  a  desire  for 
solitude,  and  that  to  him  indescribable  peace 
which  a  life  apart  from  the  "madding  crowd" 
assures.  It  was  this  strange  characteristic,  ab- 
sence of  that  love  of  gregariousness  common  to 
man,  which  earned  for  him  in  Council  Grove  half 
a  century  later,  the  sobriquet  of  "The  Hermit 
Priest  of  the  Santa  Fe  Trail,"  and  a  year  after 
his  departure  from  that  place,  among  his  devoted 
adherents  in  the  mountains  of  New  Mexico,  the 


32  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

more  applicable  one,  "El  Solitario"  (The  Soli- 
tary Man),  in  contradistinction  to  "  El  Hermito  " 
(  The  Hermit) ,  which  he  never  was  in  the  strict 
interpretation  of  the  term. 

When  but  eighteen,  the  youthful  Matteo  left 
his  native  island,  under  the  patronage  of  the  good 
bishop,  who  loved  him,  to  perfect  his  education 
in  Rome,  beneath  the  very  shadow  of  St.  Peter's, 
where  he  took  holy  orders  at  the  early  age  of 
twenty-one.  Then,  according  to  his  sad  story, 
began  that  life  of  stormy  passions  and  sorrowful 
pilgrimages,  culminating  in  his  assassination 
forty  years  afterwards  in  the  far-off  Occident. 

He  was  called  by  the  Church  ' '  Father  Fran- 
cesco," and  although  so  young,  was  noted  for  his 
eloquence,  subtile  philosophy,  and  the  boldness  of 
his  political  utterances.  But  notwithstanding  his 
pronounced  views,  the  Pope  named  him  as  one  of 
his  secretaries.  The  College  of  the  Propagandists, 
however,  refused  to  confirm  him,  and  placed  him 
under  interrogation  and  discipline.  He  elo- 
quently defended  himself,  and  the  charges  were 
not  sustained.  The  severe  discipline  ended  to 
which  he  had  been  subjected,  and  he  was  assigned 
to  duty  in  the  purlieus  of  the  Eternal  City. 

In  a  short  time,  Matteo  Boccalini's  sunny  na- 
ture and  warm  passions  caused  his  disgrace.  He 


THE    HERMIT    PRIEST  88 

became  enamored  of  a  fair  devotee,  one  of  his 
charge — a  dark-haired,  lustrous-eyed,  bewitching 
creature  of  the  "Land  of  the  Vine."  Alas!  the 
too  susceptible  young  priest  succumbed  to  the 
wiles  of  the  "radiant  maiden,"  and  he  fell  in  a 
most  earthly  and  fleshly  way.  Poor  Boccalini 
was  immediately  and  openly  charged  with  the 
enormity  of  his  crime,  prosecuted,  and  denounced. 
He  was  despoiled  of  his  sacerdotal  functions,  and 
compelled  to  flee;  became  a  wanderer  upon  the 
face  of  the  earth,  supping  with  sorrow,  and  in 
despair  for  companions  throughout  the  remainder 
of  his  mundane  pilgrimage. 

For  a  short  time  after  his  unwarranted  and  sin- 
ful escapade  he  campaigned  with  the  heroic  Gari- 
baldi ;  then  he  turned  with  appealing  looks  toward 
America,  the  haven  for  all  who  are  oppressed; 
crossed  the  ocean,  and  in  a  few  weeks  began  his 
eventful  journey  on  this  continent.  Never  again 
was  he  to  behold  the  place  of  his  birth,  the  chalky 
outlines  of  fair,  beautiful  Capri,  which  so  glori- 
ously begems  the  Mediterranean.  The  phospho- 
rescent Bay  of  Naples,  the  sky,  the  sunshine  and 
vine-clad  hills  of  dear  old  Italy,  were  never  more 
to  stir  his  once  impulsive  nature,  or  quicken  into 
life  his  now  deadened  heart. 

Years  rolled  on ;  youth  passed  by  and  middle 
—3 


34  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

age  was  upon  the  homeless  priest,  when,  after 
having  roamed  wearily  from  place  to  place,  visit- 
ing one  Indian  tribe  here  and  another  there,  in 
the  vain  hope  of  discovering  some  clan,  or  people 
near  unto  nature's  heart,  whose  souls  were  at- 
tuned to  his  own,  who  would  receive  him  in  the 
simplicity  of  his  severe  and  pious  penance,  he  ar- 
rived among  the  Kaws,  or  Kansas,  whose  reserva- 
tion was  in  the  lovely  valley  of  the  Neosho,  a  few 
miles  below  Council  Grove.  But  that  tribe,  a 
dirty,  despicable  race,  very  suspicious,  and  withal 
not  remarkable  for  their  reverence  of  any  re- 
ligion, did  not  take  kindly  to  the  weary  old  man, 
who  had  entered  their  midst  with  the  purest  in- 
tentions :  his  pious  zeal,  his  abstinence  and  self- 
denial  made  them  fear  to  approach  him.  They 
did  not  understand  that — 

"  When  holy  and  devout  religious  men 
Are  at  their  beads,  'tis  hard  to  draw  them  thence, 
So  sweet  is  zealous  contemplation." 

The  miserable  savages  looked  upon  him,  the 
meek  and  humble  pilgrim,  as  an  intruder;  said 
he  was  "bad  medicine."  So  Father  Francesco 
was  110  more  at  ease  with  them  in  their  rude  skin 
lodges  than  he  would  have  been  in  the  gilded  halls 
of  the  Vatican. 

He  then  came  to  Council  Grove,  as  stated  — 


THE    HERMIT    PRIEST  35 

came  as  the  tramp  has  since  come,  unheralded 
and  uninvited,  but  not  to  beg  bread  at  the  doors 
of  its  residents,  as  the  latter  now  does.  Nor  did 
he  come  to  tell  off  his  beads  in  the  presence  of 
the  vulgar  curious,  but  went  upon  the  hillside 
beyond  the  town,  to  seek  the  solitude  and  retire- 
ment of  a  natural  cave  in  the  limestone  rock  of 
the  region,  troubling  no  one;  an  enigma  to  the 
world,  and  a  subject  for  the  idle  gossip. 

There  for  five  months  he  lived,  accessible  to  but 
few,  with  whom,  when  he  felt  and  recognized  in 
them  the  quickened  glow  of  a  soul  that  believed 
in  the  Fatherhood  of  God  and  the  Brotherhood  of 
Man,  he  would  talk  in  tenderest  strains  of  every- 
thing that  was  good,  true,  and  beautiful. 

The  "hermit  priest,"  as  he  was  now  called,  had 
of  earthly  possessions  so  little  that  he  could  have 
vied  with  the  lowly  Nazarine  in  the  splendor  of 
his  poverty.  Of  crucifixes,  devotional  memen- 
toes, and  other  religious  trinkets,  sweetly  suggest- 
ive of  better  and  happier  days,  he  had  preserved 
a  few.  His  greatest  solace  was  in  half  a  dozen 
well-thumbed  small  volumes,  between  whose  cov- 
ers none  peered  but  himself.  He  was  ever  regular 
at  his  devotions;  for  notwithstanding  he  had 
grievously  sinned,  as  he  declared,  he  was  con- 
stantly striving  to  outlive  its  horrid  memory,  and 


86  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

to  repair  the  injury  he  had  done  his  Master's 
cause. 

He  possessed  one  article  of  property  that  tinges 
his  sojourn  at  Council  Grove  with  a  delightfully 
romantic  remembrance  among  the  very  limited 
number  now  living  there,  who  knew  of  the  vaga- 
ries of  the  remarkably  strange  man;  these  were 
sometimes  his  confidants  and  friends,  within  a 
limited  degree  It  was  a  rudely  constructed  man- 
dolin, which  during  all  the  years  of  his  erratic 
pilgrimage  he  had  tenaciously  clung  to,  until  its 
exterior  presented  a  confused  mass  of  scratches 
and  dents,  indicative  of  hard  usage.  Despite  all 
that,  curious  as  it  may  seem,  by  some  mysterious 
means  its  rich  tones  had  been  preserved  in  their 
original  purity  and  depth. 

On  the  evenings  of  Kansas'  incomparable  Indian 
summer,  during  the  early  part  of  which  season  he 
was  living  in  his  cave  near  Council  Grove,  the 
''hermit  priest,"  seated  on  a  projecting  ledge  at 
the  mouth  of  his  rocky  and  isolated  retreat,  would 
sweep  the  strings  of  his  treasured  instrument  with 
a  touch  as  light,  deft,  and  sorrowfully  tender  r.s 
a  maiden  whose  pure  young  heart  had  just  been 
thrilled  by  its  first  breath  of  love. 

To  those  who  were  so  fortunate  —  and  they  were 
very  few  —  as  to  be  invited  to  spend  an  hour 


THE    HERMIT    PRIEST  87 

with  him,  his  vesper  hymns,  rendered  in  his  ex- 
quisite tenor  voice,  were  as  soul-inspiring  as  the 
gentle  earnestness  of  a  young  girl's  prayer.  His 
sometime  Neapolitan  songs  and  soft  airs  of  his 
native  isle  were  as  sweet  as  the  chant  of  the  an- 
gels he  invoked  when  in  a  deeply  religious  niood, 
and  his  heart-feeling  tones  mingled  sadly  with  the 
soughing  of  the  evening  breeze  in  the  dense  fo- 
liage on  the  margin  of  the  placid  Neosho  that 
flowed  near  by.  Thus,  in  the  calm  enjoyment  of 
his  self-imposed  solitude,  he  lived  with 

"The  moss  his  bed,  the  cave  his  humble  cell, 
His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal  well." 

Among  the  various  languages  necessary  for  the 
communication  of  ideas  between  the  motley  crowd 
comprising  the  civilization  of  the  then  remote 
region,  there  was  none  that  Matteo  Boccalini  did 
not  understand  and  speak  fluently,  so  liberal  had 
been  his  education  in  that  particular. 

Once,  when  a  stabbed  and  dying  Mexican,  the 
victim  of  some  gambling-quarrel  among  the  driv- 
ers of  the  "bull-train  "  to  which  he  was  attached, 
asked  a  service  for  the  repose  of  his  soul,  Father 
Francesco  hastened  to  the  anxious  man's  side. 
There  he  administered  the  last  sacrament  of  the 
church  to  the  expiring  creature  in  his  own  Ian- 


88  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

guage,  who  died  with  a  resigned  look  upon  his 
face,  as  he  listened  to  the  absolving  words  he 
could  perfectly  understand,  which  was  a  thing  of 
joy  to  the  holy  man  who  had  performed  the  sa- 
cred office. 

One  day  late  in  the  month  of  October,  now 
nearly  thirty-six  years  ago,  the  "hermit  priest" 
saw  walking  through  the  streets  of  the  little  vil- 
lage a  dark-visaged  person,  clad  in  clerical  garb, 
and  whom  Boccaliui  believed  to  be  the  lover  of 
the  woman  he  had  wronged  in  his  youth,  and  that 
the  stranger,  if  it  were  he  whom  he  suspected, 
could  never  be  persuaded  to  think  that  Matteo 
was  not  wholly  to  be  blamed  for  the  life  he  had 
blasted. 

He  told  his  friends  he  could  no  longer  tarry 
with  them ;  he  would  go  away  to  the  mountains  of 
New  Mexico,  seek  another  cave,  rear  again  the 
blessed  cross,  emblem  of  his  Master's  suffering, 
and  once  more  live  in  solitude,  from  which  he 
had  here  somewhat  strayed. 

He  frequently,  when  in  a  communicative  mood, 
had  talked  much  to  them  of  the  delights  of  abso- 
lute solitude.  It  was,  he  argued,  the  nurse  of  en- 
thusiasm; that  enthusiasm  was  the  parent  of 
genius;  that  solitude  had  always  been  eagerly 
sought  for  in  every  age ;  it  was  the  inspiration  of 


THE    HERMIT    PRIEST  6\) 

the  dominant  religion  of  every  nation ;  that  their 
founders  were  men  who,  seeking  the  quiet  and  se- 
clusion of  caverns  or  the  desert,  and  subordinat- 
ing the  flesh  to  the  spirit,  had  visions  of  the 
"  beyond."  The  veil  hiding  the  better  world  had 
been  lifted  for  them,  and  their  teachings  had 
come  down  to  us  through  the  aeons,  elevating  man 
above  the  brute. 

The  next  morning  after  the  sudden  appearance 
of  the  stranger  whose  presence  had  so  discom- 
posed the  usually  calm  priest,  a  delicious  morn- 
ing in  the  month  of  "  autumn's  holocaust,"  when 
the  breeze  was  billowing  the  russet-colored  grass 
upon  the  virgin  prairies,  Father  Francesco  gath- 
ered up  his  few  precious  relics,  and,  accepting  the 
escort  of  a  caravan  just  ready  to  start  for  New 
Mexico,  left  Council  Grove,  his  cave,  and  the 
warm  friends  he  had  made  there,  forever. 

The  caravan  under  the  protection  of  which  the 
frightened  prelate  went  westward  was  owned  by 
a  Mexican  don,  a  brother-in-law  to  Kit  Carson, 
He  still  resides  near  the  spot  where  the  ill-fated 
Italian,  a  year  or  two  after  his  wearisome  journey 
across  the  Great  Plains,  was  hurried  to  eternity. 

This  venerable  Mexican  and  old-time  voyageur 
of  the  almost  obliterated  Santa  Fe  trail,  when  I 
last  visited  him  at  his  hospitable  home  in  the 


40  TALES    OP    THE    TRAIL 

mountains,  fourteen  years  ago,  entertained  me  by 
relating  some  of  the  more  prominent  character- 
istics of  his  strange  compagnon  du  voyage  during 
that  memorable  trip  with  the  ' '  hermit  priest ' ' 
from  Council  Grove  more  than  twenty  years  pre- 
viously. He  said  that  the  strange  man  would 
never  ride,  either  on  horseback  or  in  one  of  the 
wagons,  despite  the  earnest  invitation  extended 
to  him  each  recurring  morning  by  the  master  of 
the  caravan;  preferring  to  trudge  along  uncom- 
plainingly day  after  day  during  the  sunny  hours 
beside  the  plodding  oxen  through  the  alkali  dust 
of  the  desert,  and  faltered  not. 

Neither  would  he  at  night  partake  of  the  shelter 
of  a  tent,  constantly  offered  but  as  constantly 
and  persistently  refused,  preferring  to  roll  him- 
self up  in  a  single  coarse  wrap,  seeking  some  quiet 
spot  removed  from  the  corral  of  wagons,  where 
for  an  hour  or  two  under  the  scintillating  stars 
he  would  tell  off  his  beads,  or,  accompanied  by 
his  mandolin,  chant  some  sad  refrain  to  the  Vir- 
gin, until  long  after  the  camp  had  gone  to  sleep. 
For  his  subsistence  he  himself  caught  and  cooked 
the  prairie  dog,  ground  squirrel,  and  gopher. 
Only  occasionally,  when  hard  pressed,  would  he 
accept  a  meal,  which  was  constantly  proffered 
by  the  Mexican  teamsters,  begging  the  "hermit 


THE    HERMIT   PRIEST  41 

priest ' '  to  share  with  them ;  for  in  their  love  for 
the  Catholic  Church,  to  which  they  were  so  de- 
voted, he  seemed  to  their  untutored  minds  a  most 
zealous  but  humble  exponent  of  their  religious 
tenets  and  visible  form  of  their  sacred  faith. 

Thus  reticent,  thoughtful  and  devout,  he 
marched  with  the  caravan  for  many  weeks,  until 
at  last  the  city  of  Holy  Faith,  the  quaint  old 
Spanish  town  of  Santa  Fe,  was  reached.  There 
he  parted  company  with  his  escort,  and  for 
nearly  a  year  afterward  wandered  all  over  that 
portion  of  the  Territory  of  New  Mexico,  and  into 
Arizona,  still  seeking  the  Alnaschar  of  his  dreams, 
a  suitable  abiding-place  in  the  recesses  of  the 
hills,  and  a  people  whose  souls  might  be  made  to 
attune  with  his.  But  he  miserably  failed  in  all 
that  he  desired  during  his  sad  pilgrimage  through- 
out the  Southwest.  Then,  turning  northward 
again,  he  slowly  and  almost  despairingly  retraced 
his  steps  until  he  arrived  in  the  sequestered  valley 
of  the  Sapillo,  where  he  at  last  found  a  humble 
class  and  his  coveted  cave  on  the  summit  of  the 
mighty  mountain  described  at  the  opening  of  this 
chapter. 

There,  content  after  so  many  years  of  unsatis- 
fied wandering,  he  commenced  that  life  of  relig- 
ious ministrations,  and  exercised  those  unselfish 


42  TALES    OF    THE   TRAIL 

acts  of  kindness  and  love,  whose  remembrance  is 
imprinted  so  indelibly  on  the  hearts  of  his  devoted 
followers;  for, 

"Through  suffering  he  soothed,  and  through  sickness  he 
nursed." 

There  again,  under  the  constellations,  which 
nowhere  else  shine  more  brilliantly,  were  the 
strains  of  his  mandolin,  and  the  rich  notes  of  that 
magnificent  voice,  heard  by  the  enchanted  people 
who  listened  each  evening  at  the  doors  of  their 
rude  adobe  huts  in  the  valley  below  the  huge  hill 
that  cast  its  great  shadow  over  them. 

Notwithstanding  the  "hermit  priest "  had  found 
a  class  congenial  to  his  soul's  demands,  his  eccen- 
tricities still  clung  to  him.  His  persistency  in 
living  apart  from  his  chosen  people  enforced  them 
to  always  speak  of  him  as  "El  Solitario  "  (The 
Solitary  Man  ) . 

He  would  visit  among  them  to  solace  and  nurse 
the  sick,  and  give  absolution  to  the  dying,  which 
his  and  their  religion  so  beautifully  promises,  but 
he  would  never  break  bread  within  their  hospita- 
ble doors ;  preferring,  and  insisting,  always,  upon 
a  crust  and  a  cup  of  cold  water  outside. 

Nor  would  he  sleep  upon  the  soft  woolen  colchons 
which  even  the  poorest  of  New-Mexican  homes 


THE    HERMIT    PBIE8T  48 

afford,  but,  absorbed  by  devout  thoughts,  wrapped 
himself  in  his  single  coarse  blanket  and  laid  him- 
self on  the  bare  ground ;  or,  if  it  was  stormy,  in 
some  outhouse  with  the  sheep  and  goats.  This,  of 
course,  was  part  of  his  self-imposed  penance,  from 
which  he  never  deviated,  rigorous  as  it  was. 

One  day,  after  his  familiar  and  beloved  face 
had  been  missed  for  more  than  a  week  by  his  dev- 
otees, a  sorrowful  party  went  out  to  seek  him. 
They  found  him  dead  on  the  rugged  trail  to  his 
lonely  home ;  his  beads  enfolded  in  his  delicately 
shaped  fingers,  and  his  countenance  wearing  a 
saint-like  expression.  A  poisoned  dagger  in  his 
heart,  by  the  hand  of  an  assassin,  had  accom- 
plished the  foul  deed  which  for  a  whole  lifetime, 
during  every  moment  of  the  unhappy  man's  active 
and  dreaming  hours,  was  a  continually  disturbing 
fear. 

Thus  passed  away,  as  he  had  predicted  in  his 
youth,  the  eccentric  but  holy  Matteo  Boccalini, 
"Hermit  Priest"  of  the  old  "Santa  Fe'  Trail," 
and  the  "El  Solitario  "  of  the  New  Mexico  moun- 
tains. A  man  of  sorrow  and  grief,  yet  with  as 
much  repentance,  and  as  many  penances  as  sins ; 
one  of  those  ethereal  beings  who  might  become 
physically  unclean,  but  never  spiritually  impure. 

For  years   after  his   departure    from   Council 


44 


TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 


Grove,  the  "hermit  priest's"  cave  was  an  object 
of  much  interest.  Until  within  a  very  short 
period,  when  the  quarrymen  tore  down  ita  last 
vestige,  upon  its  time-worn  walls  could  be  traced, 
rudely  carved,  his  name,  "  Matteo  Boccalini,"  a 
cross,  "Jesu  Maria,"  and  "Capri" — all  so  dear 
to  the  lonely  and  sad  man's  heart. 


MEDICINE   BLUFF. 


N KNOWN,  perhaps, 
to  the  reader,  in  the 
very  heart  of  the 
Wichita  range,  in 
the  Indian  Territory, 
there  is  an  immense 
hill,  which,  by  trian- 
gulation  effected  dur- 
ing the  winter  cam- 
paign of  1868-69  by 
the  engineer  officer 
attached  to  General 
Sheridan's  headquar- 
ters, is  three  hundred 
and  ten  feet  high. 
At  its  base  there  is  a  clear,  running  river,  or 
properly  a  creek — for  it  is  only  about  seventy 
feet  wide.  The  shape  which  the  stream  assumes 
at  the  immediate  foot  of  the  mountain  is  that  of 
a  crescent,  forming  quite  a  large  pool  or  basin. 

Under  the  shadow  which  the  great  mass  of  dis- 
rupted   rock    throws   over  the  water   at  certain 

45 


LITTLE  BEAVER. 


46  TALE8    OF   THE    TRAIL 

hours,  the  pool  looks  as  black  as  ink.  The 
moment  the  water  emerges  into  the  sunlight 
again,  it  sparkles  and  scintillates  until  it  is 
painful  for  the  eyes  to  rest  upon  its  rapidly 
flowing  ripple.  That  the  great  elevation  of  this 
detached  portion  of  the  range  was  caused  by 
some  extraordinary  convulsion,  which  moved  it 
from  its  normal  position,  is  apparent,  and  curi- 
osity is  excited  to  assign  a  reason  for  the  limited 
area  of  the  upheaval. 

The  stream  which  flows  so  picturesquely  at  the 
base  of  the  isolated  mountain  is  called  by  the 
Indians  Medicine  Bluff  Creek ;  the  hill  above  it, 
Medicine  Bluff.  From  the  time  when  the  mem- 
ory of  the  various  tribes  "runneth  not  to  the 
contrary,"  Medicine  Bluff  has  been  a  prominent 
and  sacred  spot  in  the  traditions  and  legitimate 
history  of  the  many  nations  of  savages,  but  espe- 
cially in  that  of  the  Comanches  and  Wichitas. 
It  was  a  sort  of  "Our  Lady  of  Lourdes  "  place, 
where  the  sick  were  cured  in  the  most  miraculous 
manner  after  they  had  been  given  up  by  the  cele- 
brated doctors  of  the  tribe.  If  the  party  afflicted 
had  never  seriously  grieved  the  Great  Spirit,  the 
cure  was  as  sudden  as  marvelous;  if  the  sick, 
who  were  carried  to  the  top  of  the  bluff  by  their 
friends,  had  at  any  time  offended  the  Great 


MEDICINE    BLUFF  47 

Spirit,  they  died  at  once,  the  wolves  devoured 
their  flesh,  and  their  bones  were  transported  to 
the  "Land  of  Terrors."  Sometimes,  when  the 
individual  taken  up  to  invoke  the  aid  of  the  In- 
dian god  had  lived  an  exemplary  life,  instead  of 
being  cured  of  his  fleshly  ills  he  or  she  was  trans- 
lated, like  Elisha  of  old,  to  the  happy  hunting- 
grounds. 

The  Comanches  declared  that  at  night  the  Great 
Spirit  frequently  rested  on  the  top  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  when  that  occurred  the  whole  region  to 
the  verge  of  the  horizon  was  lighted  up  with  a 
strange  glow,  resembling  that  emanating  from  an 
immense  prairie  fire  reflected  upon  the  clouds. 
The  Indians  also  claimed  that  no  dew  or  rain 
ever  fell  upon  the  extreme  summit  of  the  bluff, 
where  the  sick  were  to  lie  and  wait  for  the  mani- 
festation of  the  Maiiitou ;  nor  did  the  wind  blow 
there  —  so  that  it  was  a  calm  spot,  comprising  all 
the  essentials  to  a  speedy  recovery. 

One  among  the  many  traditions  connected  with 
the  charming  but  weird  place  was  told  by  an  aged 
warrior  of  the  Comauches  one  evening,  around 
the  camp-fire,  in  1868,  after  white-winged  Peace 
had  spread  her  wings  once  more  over  the  prairies, 
and  we  were  pulling  vigorously  at  our  ' '  brier- 
woods  "  filled  with  fragrant  "Lone  Jack."  The 


48  TALEB    OF   THE    TRAIL 

old  fellow,  wrinkled  and  black  with  the  smoke  of 
the  tepee  in  which  he  had  lived  for  nearly  eighty 
years,  and  now  wrapped  in  that  of  his  stone  pipe, 
which  he  suckad  as  industriously  as  an  infant, 
told  this  story: 

There  was  once,  ages  before  the  white  man  had 
invaded  the  country  of  the  Indian,  a  very  old 
warrior,  who,  sick  and  despondent,  went  to  the 
top  of  Medicine  Bluff  to  be  cured.  He  for  many 
years  had  ceased  to  hunt  the  buffalo,  lived  with 
the  women  of  the  tribe,  and  settled  himself  down 
to  a  peaceful  calm,  awaiting  the  time  when  he 
should  be  called  to  join  his  fathers.  One  day  he 
struggled  to  the  top  of  the  bluff  in  the  hope  that 
he  might  die  and  be  carried  bodily  to  the  happy 
hunting-grounds,  as  he  knew  from  the  traditions 
of  his  tribe  others  had  been  before  him. 

He  had  been  absent  from  his  lodge  and  the 
village  for  three  nights.  During  all  that  time 
the  frightened  people  down  below,  who  had  been 
diligently  watching,  observed  a  great  blaze  on  the 
top  of  the  mountain,  as  if  it  were  a  signal-fire 
to  warn  them  of  some  impending  danger  to  the 
tribe. 

On  the  third  morning  a  young  warrior  was  seen 
descending  the  trail  from  the  heights  of  the  bluff, 
drawing  near  to  the  village.  When  he  entered  its 


MEDICINE    BLUFF  49 

streets  he  looked  about  him  in  evident  surprise. 
He  approached  the  chief's  lodge  and  sat  down  by 
the  fire. 

The  warriors  of  the  tribe  gazed  at  him  with  awe 
and  that  curiosity  which  a  stranger  ever  evokes. 
No  one  seemed  to  recognize  him.  All  remained 
silent,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  Lighting  his 
pipe  with  a  coal,  he  took  a  pull  at  it  himself, 
Indian  fashion,  then  passed  it  around  the  circle. 
The  warriors  noticed  that  his  pipe-stem  was  deco- 
rated with  the  feathers  of  the  gray  eagle,  denoting 
him  to  be  a  great  warrior,  one  who  had  captured 
a  large  number  of  scalps,  so  they  regarded  him 
with  still  greater  wonder.  After  every  one  in  the 
circle  around  the  chief's  fire  had  taken  a  whiff, 
the  stranger  commenced  his  story: 

"After  I  arrived  at  the  top  of  the  Medicine 
Bluff,  I  looked  off  at  the  vast  expanse  which 
surrounded  me.  I  saw  the  village  of  my  people; 
I  could  hear  the  dogs  bark  and  the  children 
laugh;  I  could  hear  my  own  family  mourning, 
as  if  some  one  had  been  taken  from  them ;  I  saw 
the  buffalo  covering  the  prairie,  and  the  cun- 
ning wolf  lying  in  wait  to  pounce  upon  his  prey. 
When  I  again  looked  all  around  me,  and  beheld 
the  young  warriors  in  their  pride  and  strength,  I 
asked  myself:  'Why  do  I  live  any  longer?  My 
—4 


50  TALES    OP   THE    TRAIL 

fires  have  gone  out.  I  must  follow  my  fathers. 
The  world  is  beautiful  to  the  young,  but  to  the 
old  it  has  no  pleasure.  I  will  go  there ! ' 

"With  this  upon  my  mind,  I  continued:  '  Far 
away  toward  the  setting  sun  are  the  hunting- 
grounds  of  my  people.'  Then  I  gathered  all  my 
strength  and  leaped  from  the  giddy  height  before 
me.  I  knew  no  more  of  the  woes  of  this  life.  I 
was  caught  up  in  mid-air  and  suddenly  trans- 
ported to  a  country  where  game  was  countless ; 
where  there  was  no  wind,  no  rain,  no  sickness; 
where  all  the  great  chiefs  of  the  Comanches  who 
had  ever  died  were  assembled;  where  they  were 
all  young  again,  and  chased  the  buffalo  and 
feasted  as  when  on  earth.  There  was  no  dark- 
ness. The  people  were  continually  happy.  Beau- 
tiful birds  sang  on  the  trees.  The  war- whoop  was 
never  more  heard." 

The  old  chief  had  been  rejuvenated,  and  now 
came  back  to  his  people  with  all  his  youthful 
vigor,  to  live  again  with  his  own  tribe.  The  story 
of  the  strange  warrior  captivated  the  Indians. 

He  at  once  became  an  oracle  and  great  medi- 
cine-man in  his  tribe;  his  power  to  cure  the  sick 
was  wonderful,  and  his  counsel  was  implicitly 
obeyed  ever  afterward. 


MEDICINE    BLUFF  51 

Medicine  Bluff  has  of  course  lost  much  of  its 
prestige  among  the  Indians,  for  the  reason  that 
since  the  extinction  of  the  buffalo  and  other  large 
game  the  tribes  have  been  scattered,  being  gener- 
ally pretty  closely  confined  to  the  reservations, 
with  the  children  taught  in  schools,  and  the 
superstitions,  or  at  least  many  of  them,  having 
passed  gradually  out  of  the  remembrance  of  the 
new  generation,  known  only  to  the  few  old  war- 
riors left. 

The  savage,  like  the  white  man,  in  his  dis- 
appointments and  miseries  sometimes  resorts  to 
suicide  as  a  cure-all  for  and  end-all  of  life's  bur- 
dens. Among  the  powerful  Comanches  Medicine 
Bluff  was,  for  an  unknown  period,  one  of  their 
famous  places,  like  the  Vendome  Column  in 
Paris,  from  which  to  terminate  an  unsatisfactory 
and  miserable  existence.  The  bluff  was  also  a 
rendezvous  for  the  young  warriors,  who  were  to 
go  for  the  first  time  in  battle  with  the  tried 
soldiers  of  the  tribe,  to  propitiate  the  Great 
Spirit. 

The  sun  in  that  nation,  as  in  the  old  tribe  of 
Natchez,  symbolized  their  god.  For  three  con- 
secutive mornings  the  youthful  aspirant  for  mili- 
tary honors  was  obliged  to  go  to  the  highest  point 
of  the  great  hill,  where,  armed  with  his  buffalo 


52  TALES    OP   THE    TRAIL 

hide,  and  alone,  he  was  with  the  utmost  rever- 
ence to  present  the  front  of  his  shield  to  the 
early  morning  sun  as  its  rays  gilded  the  rocky 
crags  of  the  mountain,  assuming  the  attitude  of 
a  warrior  in  the  heat  of  battle,  on  guard  against 
his  enemy's  spear  and  shower  of  arrows.  This 
ceremony  on  the  part  of  the  novitiate,  if  rever- 
ently performed,  gave  his  shield  invulnerable 
power. 

A  story  told  to  many  of  us  during  the  cam- 
paign referred  to,  by  one  of  the  oldest  of  the 
Comanches,  the  oldest  Indian  I  have  ever  seen  — 
"  Little  Beaver,"  of  the  Osages — is  very  interest- 
ing, showing  to  what  an  art  the  despised  savage 
of  thirty  years  ago  reduced  story-telling.  The 
dried-up  old  warrior  prefaced  his  tale  by  stating 
that  he  was  so  aged  ' '  that  he  was  brother  of  the 
highest  peak  of  the  Wichita  Mountains,"  at  the 
foot  of  which  we  were  camped  on  a  cold  Decem- 
ber night  in  1868.  Here  is  the  story : 

So  many  years  ago  that  it  seemed  like  a  dream 
even  to  the  narrator,  the  Comanches  were  the 
greatest  tribe  on  earth.  Their  warriors  were  as 
numerous  as  a  herd  of  buffalo  on  the  Arkansas 
in  the  fall.  They  were  more  cunning  than  the 
coyote.  Their  herd  of  ponies  contained  so  many 
animals  —  all  fine  and  fat  —  that  no  man  could 


MEDICINE    BLUFF  53 

count  them  in  a  year.  All  the  other  Indians  of 
the  plains  and  mountains  feared  and  trembled  at 
the  name  of  Comanche. 

In  the  tribe,  as  is  ever  the  case,  there  were 
two  warriors  who  excelled  all  the  others  in  their 
prowess.  One  was  young,  and  the  other  middle- 
aged.  They  were  very  jealous  of  each  other,  each 
constantly  attempting  some  deed  of  daring  at 
which,  it  was  hoped,  the  rival  would  balk.  One 
fall,  when  the  Indian  summer  made  the  air  red- 
olent with  the  sweet  perfume  of  thousands  of 
flowers  and  the  mountains  were  bathed  in  the 
amber  mist  of  that  delicious  season,  all  the  great 
warriors  were  returning  from  one  of  their  most 
famous  victories. 

•  They  camped  under  the  shadow  of  Medicine 
Bluff  late  one  afternoon,  where  the  young  brave, 
who  was  quietly  smoking  his  pipe  as  he  hovered 
over  the  little  camp-fire  on  which  he  was  broiling 
a  piece  of  antelope  steak,  happened  to  fix  his 
gaze  on  the  highest  point  of  the  bluff,  and  in  that 
position  continued  for  several  minutes  wrapped 
in  a  most  profound  study,  while  all  the  rest  of 
the  band  stopped  whatever  they  were  doing  and 
gazed  at  him  as  intently. 

Suddenly  he  rose  to  his  full  height  and  cast  a 
defiant  look  upon  the  warriors  scattered  around 


54  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

on  the  grass,  who,  excited  at  his  strange  manner, 
sprang  up  to  learn  what  he  meant.  Presently  he 
turned  his  face  toward  the  sun,  which  was  about 
two  hours  high,  and  broke  out  with  this  boast : 

' '  No  warrior  equals  me  1  I  am  the  greatest  of 
all  the  Comanches  1  I  resemble  that  mountain  I " 
pointing  with  his  spear  to  the  highest  peak  of 
Medicine  Bluff.  "My  actions  are  as  far  above 
yours  as  that  mountain  is  above  the  stream  at 
its  foot  1  Is  there  a  warrior  here  who  dare  follow 
me?" 

Then  he  shook  his  spear  and  brandished  his 
shield  in  defiance  of  any  and  all.  His  rival  was 
all  the  time  swelling  with  rage  and  pride.  He 
knew  the  boast  was  intended  for  him  alone, 
although  he  was  the  elder  of  the  two.  He  ap- 
proached the  braggart  with  all  the  dignity  of  the 
savage  that  he  was,  and,  striking  himself  on  the 
bosom  several  times,  exclaimed: 

"  So  I  You  are  the  greatest  warrior  of  the 
Comanches  ?  You  are  the  buffalo  that  leads  the 
herd  ?  I  am  the  old  bull  to  be  driven  away  by 
the  cowardly  coyote  and  die,  leaving  my  bones 
to  whiten  ?  You  ask  me  to  follow  you  ?  Never ! 
I  never  follow  I  I  will  go  with  you  1  " 

The  remainder  of  the  band  gathered  around  the 
two  celebrated  warriors.  They  wondered  what 


MEDICINE    BLUFF 


55 


new  deed  of  daring  they  were  going  to  attempt, 
as  the  rivals  arrayed  themselves  in  their  best 
buckskin  dress  and  mounted  their  favorite  ponies. 
With  shields  held  in  a  defying  position,  their 
faces  painted,  and  their  bonnets  of  war-eagle 
feathers  flowing  in  the  breeze,  they  rode  away 
without  another  word. 

They  forded  the  stream.  The  younger  now 
started  up  the  difficult  trail  which  led  to  the 
sacred  summit  of  the  Medicine  Bluff,  where, 
stopping  his  affrighted  steed,  he  pointed  to  the 
fearful  precipice  a  few  rods  off,  and  exclaimed: 

"You  have  followed  me  here;  follow  me  far- 
ther." 

Then  shouting  the  war-whoop,  which  made  the 
echoes  of  the  mountain  awaken,  and  thumping 


s 


56  TALES   OF    THE    TRAIL 

the  flanks  of  his  animal  vigorously,  he  darted 
toward  the  awful  brink.  His  rival  instantly 
raised  his  pony  on  his  hind  legs,  and  with  a 
whoop  more  piercing  followed  the  young  man, 
who,  when  he  had  reached  the  edge  of  the 
precipice,  failed  in  courage  and  pulled  his  pony 
violently  back  on  his  haunches.  The  elder  saw 
his  chance.  With  an  awful  yell  of  defiance  and 
triumph,  he  forced  his  horse  to  make  the  terrible 
leap  in  mid-air. 

All  the  warriors  on  the  grassy  bottom  below 
watched  with  eager  interest  what  was  going  on 
above  them.  They  heard  the  whoop  of  the  aged 
warrior  as  he  jumped  into  the  awful  abyss. 
They  saw  him  sit  as  calmly  as  if  in  his  "  lodge  " 
as  he  descended,  seated  as  upright  on  his  pony 
as  if  his  animal  were  walking  the  prairie,  and, 
above  all,  they  heard  his  clear  voice  as  it  rung 
out  in  the  clouds:  "Greatest  of  all  the  Co- 
manches  1  " 

Sadly  they  wended  their  way  to  the  foot  of  the 
bluff,  where  both  horse  and  brave  rider  lay  a 
mangled  mass  on  the  rocks,  the  old  warrior  with 
a  smile  on  his  wrinkled  face  of  unmistakable 
triumph. 

The  boasting  rival  became  a  wanderer  among 
the  tribes.  His  name  was  accursed  of  all  Indians. 


MEDICINE    BLUFF  57 

The  very  dogs  of  the  camps  snapped  at  him  as  he 
passed.  At  last,  overcome  with  remorse  at  his 
cowardice  and  treachery,  he  killed  himself.  One 
day  he  was  found  dead  on  the  grave  of  his  rival 
at  the  foot  of  the  bluff.  His  body  was  eaten  by 
the  coyotes;  his  shield  and  spear,  by  which  he 
had  been  identified,  were  lying  on  the  ground  at 
his  feet. 


A  RACE  FOR  LIFE. 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  INDIAN  WAR  OF  1864, 


N  1864  the  magnificent  valley 
of  the  "Smoky  Hill,"  with 
its  rich  share  of  wooded 
streams  and  fertile  uplands, 
and  the  still  more  Elysian 
expanse  watered  by  the  great 
Arkansas — that  embryo 
granary  of  two  continents  — 
were  simply  known  as  the 
region  through  which  passed 
twin  inter-oceanic  trails,  the 
Oregon  and  the  Santa  Fe, 
both  now  mere  memories. 

The  commerce  of  the  Great 

Plains  over  that  broad  path  through  the  wilder- 
ness, the  Santa  Fe  Trail,  was  at  its  height,  and 
immense  trains  rolled  day  after  day  toward  the 
blue  hills  which  guard  the  portals  of  New  Mexico. 
Oxen,  mules,  and  sometimes  horses,  tugged  wearily 
week  after  week  through  the  monotony  of  their 
long  journey,  their  precious  freight  ever  tempting 

68 


KICKING  BIRD. 


A    RACE    FOR   LIFE  59 

the  wily  nomads  to  plunder,  dissimulation,  and 
murder.  Pawnee  Rock,  Walnut,  Coon,  Ash  and 
Cow  creeks  were  mute  witnesses  of  a  score  or  more 
battles  that  reddened  the  blossoming  prairie  in 
springtime,  and  the  slopes  of  the  Pawnee,  Heath's 
Branch  and  Buckner's  were  resonant  with  the 
yell  of  the  Kiowa  and  Cheyenne,  who  under  the 
pale  moonlight  held  their  hideous  saturnalia  of 
butchery. 

To  protect  the  trains  on  their  weary  route 
through  the  "desert" — as  the  whole  of  this  re- 
gion was  then  termed,  and  confidently  believed 
by  the  world  to  be — troops  were  stationed,  a  mere 
handful,  relatively,  at  intervals  on  the  "great 
trail,"  to  escort  the  freighters  and  the  United 
States  mail  over  the  most  exposed  and  dangerous 
portions  of  the  route. 

The  incident  which  is  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
is  as  thrilling,  perhaps,  in  its  details,  and  as  mar- 
velous in  its  results,  as  any  that  have  come  down 
to  us  in  the  history  of  those  memorable  times. 
It  deals  with  plain  facts,  and  men  who  are  now 
living — one  of  whom,  the  principal  actor  in  the 
scenes  to  be  related,  is  known  favorably  all  over 
the  State.  [Capt.  Henry  Booth,  just  passed  away 
—1898.] 

Fort  Riley,  in  the  year  referred  to,  was  one  of 


60  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

the  extreme  permanent  military  posts.  Here,  in 
November,  1864,  Capt.  Henry  Booth  was  sta- 
tioned. He  was  chief  of  cavalry  and  inspecting 
officer  for  the  district  of  the  Upper  Arkansas,  the 
western  geographical  limit  of  which  extended  to 
the  foot  of  the  Rocky  Mountains. 

Early  in  the  month,  in  company  with  Lieut. 
Hallowell,  of  the  Ninth  Wisconsin  Battery,  he 
received  orders  to  make  a  tour  of  inspection  of 
the  several  outposts,  which  extended  as  far  as 
Fort  Lyon,  in  Colorado. 

Salina  was  occupied  by  one  company  of  the 
Seventh  Iowa  Cavalry,  under  command  of  Capt. 
Hammer.  Where  the  old  Leavenworth  stage 
route  crossed  the  Smoky  Hill,  in  a  beautifully 
timbered  bend  of  that  stream,  was  a  little  log 
stockade,  commanded  by  Lieut.  Ellsworth,  also 
of  the  Seventh  Cavalry. 

To  this  comparatively  insignificant  post  —  in- 
significant only  in  its  appointments,  not  in  im- 
portance—  the  commanding  officer  gave  his  own 
name,  which  the  county  of  Ellsworth  will  per- 
petuate in  history. 

At  the  crossing  of  the  Walnut,  on  the  broad 
trail  to  the  mountains,  were  stationed  three  hun- 
dred unassigned  recruits  of  the  Third  Wisconsin 
Cavalry,  under  the  command  of  Capt.  Conkey. 


A    RACE    FOB   LIFE  61 

This  was  one  of  the  most  important  points  of 
observation  on  the  "Great  Overland  Route,"  for 
near  it  passed  the  favorite  highway  of  the  Indians 
on  their  yearly  migrations  north  and  south. 

This  primitive  cantonment  grew  rapidly  in  its 
strategic  aspect,  was  later  made  quite  formidable, 
defensively,  and  was  named  Fort  Zarah  in  mem- 
ory of  the  youngest  son  of  Maj.  Gen.  Curtis,  killed 
by  guerrillas  somewhere  south  of  Fort  Scott,  while 
escorting  Gen.  James  G.  Blunt,  of  Kansas  fame. 

At  Fort  Larned,  always  a  prominent  point  in 
the  military  history  of  the  Plains,  one  company 
of  the  Twelfth  Kansas  and  a  section  of  the  Ninth 
Wisconsin  Battery  commanded  by  Lieut.  Potter 
were  stationed.  From  these  troops  —  the  isolated 
disposition  of  which  I  have  hurriedly  related  — 
squads,  consisting  usually  of  from  a  dozen  to 
twenty  men  or  more,  as  the  case  might  be,  under 
the  charge  of  a  corporal  or  sergeant,  were  detailed 
to  escort  the  mail  coach,  freighters,  Government 
trains,  etc. 

On  the  morning  the  order  ( to  make  the  special 
inspection  of  the  outposts  referred  to)  was  re- 
ceived at  Fort  Riley,  Captain  Booth  and  Lieut. 
Hallowell  immediately  commenced  active  prepa- 
rations for  their  extended  and  hazardous  drive 
across  the  prairies. 


62  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

All  preliminaries  arranged,  the  question  0.9  to 
the  means  of  transportation  of  the  two  officers 
was  determined  in  this  wise,  and  as  the  sequel 
will  show,  curiously  enough  saved  the  lives  of  the 
two  heroes  in  the  terrible  gauntlet  they  were  des- 
tined to  run. 

Lieut.  Hallowell  was  a  famous  "whip,"  and 
prided  himself  upon  his  exceptionally  fine  turn- 
out which  he  daily  drove  around  the  picturesque 
hills  of  Fort  Riley. 

"Booth,"  said  he  that  morning,  "let's  not 
take  a  great  lumbering  ambulance  on  this  trip. 
If  you  will  get  a  good  team  of  mules  from  the 
quartermaster,  I  will  furnish  my  light  wagon, 
and  we  will  do  our  own  driving." 

"All  right,"  replied  Booth;  "I'll  get  the 
mules." 

Lieut.  Hallowell  therefore  had  a  set  of  bows 
fitted  to  his  light  rig,  over  which  was  thrown  an 
army  wagon-sheet,  drawn  up  behind  with  a  cord, 
similar  to  the  fashion  of  the  average  emigrant  out- 
fit now  so  often  to  be  seen  upon  the  roads  of  our 
Western  prairies.  A  round  hole  was  thus  left  at 
the  end,  which  served  as  a  window,  and  as  will  be 
Been  further  on,  played  a  most  important  part  in 
the  tragedy  in  which  this  simply  covered  wagon 
figured  so  conspicuously. 


A   RACE    FOR    LIFE  63 

'  Two  valises  containing  their  dress  uniforms,  a 
box  of  crackers  and  cheese,  meat  and  sardines, 
and  a  bottle  of  anti-snakebite,  made  up  the  pre- 
cious freight  for  the  long  journey;  and  in  the 
clear  cold  of  the  early  morning  they  rolled  out  of 
the  gates  of  the  fort,  escorted  by  Company  L  of 
the  Eleventh  Kansas,  commanded  by  Lieut.  Jacob 
Van  Antwerp. 

Junction  City  was  in  those  days  in  reality  the 
limit  of  civilization,  although  Abilene  with  its 
solitary  log  cabin,  and  Salina  with  only  two, 
made  great  pretensions  as  the  most  westerly  cities 
of  the  Great  Plains.  A  single  glance  at  the  howl- 
ing wilderness  surrounding  either  place,  however, 
dissipated  all  idea  of  possible  or  probable  future 
metropolitan  greatness. 

The  rough  bluffs  that  border  Alum  and  Clear 
creeks,  in  Ellsworth  county,  through  which  the 
trail  wound  its  tortuous  way,  were  always  in 
those  days  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  Indians,  and 
many  a  solitary  straggler  has  met  his  death  from 
their  swift  arrows  in  what  are  now  called  the 
"Barker  Hills." 

Safely  through  these  dangerous  bluffs  and 
across  the  beautiful  bottoms  that  are  to-day  dot- 
ted with  some  of  the  most  picturesque  homes  in 
Ellsworth  county,  marched  the  little  army  and 


64  TALES    OF   THE   TRAIL 

its  one  white  covered  ambulance.  Not  an  inci- 
dent disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  grand  autumn 
day,  except  the  occasional  slaughter  of  buffalo 
in  mere  wantonness  now  and  then  by  some  strag- 
gling soldier;  and  early  in  the  afternoon  the 
stockade  in  the  bend  of  the  Smoky  Hill  was 
reached. 

After  an  inspection  of  this  remote  little  garri- 
son, which  was  found  in  excellent  spirits  and 
condition,  the  line  of  march  was  resumed  next 
morning  for  Capt.  Conkey's  camp  on  the  Walnut. 

The  company  of  100  men  acting  as  an  escort  were 
too  formidable  a  number  to  invite  the  cupidity  of 
the  Indians,  and  not  a  sign  of  one  was  seen  as  the 
dangerous  flats  of  Plum  creek  and  the  rolling 
country  beyond  were  successively  passed ;  and  the 
cantonment  on  the  Walnut  was  reached  with 
nothing  to  disturb  the  monotony  of  the  march. 

Capt.  Conkey's  command  at  this  important 
outpost  were  living  in  a  rude  but  comfortable 
sort  of  way  in  the  simplest  of  dugouts  constructed 
along  the  bank  of  the  stream,  and  the  officers,  a 
little  more  in  accordance  with  military  dignity, 
in  tents  a  few  rods  to  the  rear  of  the  line  of  huts. 
A  stockade  stable  had  been  built,  with  a  capacity 
of  two  hundred  and  fifty  horses,  and  sufficient 
hay  had  been  put  up  by  the  men  to  carry  the 
horses  through  the  winter. 


A   RACE    FOB    LIFE  65 

The  Captain  was  a  brusque  but  kind-hearted 
man,  and  with  him  were  stationed  his  other  of- 
ficers, one  of  whom  was  a  son  of  Admiral  Golds- 
borough,  of  naval  fame. 

The  next  morning  Capt.  Booth  made  a  rigid  in- 
spection of  the  place,  which  took  all  day,  as  an 
immense  amount  of  property  had  accumulated  for 
condemnation  ;  and  when  evening  came,  the  pa- 
pers, books,  etc.,  were  still  untouched,  and  this 
branch  of  the  inspection  was  postponed  until  the 
morning.  In  the  evening  while  sitting  around 
the  campfire,  discussing  the  war,  telling  stories, 
etc.,  Capt.  Conkey  said  to  Booth  :  "Captain,  it 
won't  take  more  than  half  an  hour  in  the  morn- 
ing to  inspect  the  papers  and  finish  up  what  you 
have  got  to  do  :  why  don't  you  start  your  escort 
out  early?  —  then  they  won't  be  obliged  to  trot 
after  the  ambulance,  or  you  to  poke  along  with 
them.  You  can  then  move  out  briskly  and  make 
time." 

Acting  upon  this  suggestion,  Capt.  Booth  went 
over  the  creek  to  Lieut.  Van  Antwerp's  camp  and 
told  him  he  need  not  wait  for  the  ambulance  in 
the  morning,  but  to  march  at  about  half -past  six 
or  at  seven  o'clock,  in  advance.  So  at  daylight 
the  escort  marched  out  agreeably  to  instructions, 
and  Booth  continued  his  inspection.  It  was 
—5 


66  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

found,  however,  that  either  Capt.  Conkey  had 
misjudged  the  amount  of  work  to  be  done  or  the 
inspecting  officer's  ability  to  do  it  in  a  certain 
time,  and  nearly  three  hours  elapsed  before  the 
task  was  completed. 

At  last  everything  was  closed  up,  much  to  the 
satisfaction  of  Lieut.  Hallowell,  who  had  been 
chafing  under  the  delay  ever  since  the  troops  de- 
parted. When  all  was  in  readiness  and  the  am- 
bulance drawn  up  in  front  of  the  commanding 
officer's  tent,  Lieut.  Hallowell  suggested  to  Booth 
the  propriety  of  taking  a  few  of  the  men  sta- 
tioned there  with  them  until  they  overtook  their 
own  escort,  which  must  now  be  several  miles  on 
the  trail  toward  Fort  Larned.  So,  upon  this, 
Booth  mentioned  it  to  Capt.  Conkey,  who  said: 
"  Oh,  there  is  no  danger;  there  hasn't  an  Indian 
been  seen  around  here  for  more  than  ten  days." 

If  they  had  known  as  much  about  Indians  then 
as  they  afterward  learned,  Capt.  Conkey's  re- 
sponse, instead  of  assuring  them,  would  have 
made  them  insist  upon  an  escort,  which  Booth  in 
his  official  capacity  had  the  power  to  order ;  but 
they  were  satisfied,  and  concluded  to  push  on. 
Jumping"  into  the  wagon,  Lieut.  Hallowell  took 
the  lines,  and  away  they  went,  rattling  over  the 
old  log  bridge  that  used  to  span  the  Walnut,  as 


A   RACE   FOB   LIFE  67 

light  of  heart  as  if  riding  to  a  dance.  It  was  a 
clear  cold  morning,  with  a  stiff  breeze  blowing 
from  the  northwest;  their  trail  was  frozen  hard 
in  some  places,  and  was  very  rough,  caused  by 
the  travel  of  heavy  trains  when  it  was  wet. 

Booth  sat  on  the  left  side  with  the  whip  in  his 
hand,  occasionally  striking  the  animals  to  keep 
their  speed.  Hallowell  struck  up  a  tune  (he  was 
a  good  singer),  and  Booth  joined  in  as  they  rolled 
along,  as  oblivious  of  danger  as  though  they  were 
in  their  quarters  at  Riley. 

After  they  had  proceeded  some  distance,  Hal- 
lowell remarked,  "The  buffalo  are  grazing  a  long 
distance  from  the  road  to-day — a  circumstance 
which  I  think  bodes  no  good."  He  had  been  on 
the  Plains  the  summer  before,  and  was  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  Indians  and  their  peculiarities 
than  Capt.  Booth ;  but  the  latter  replied  that  he 
' '  thought  it  was  because  their  escort  had  gone 
along  ahead,  and  had  probably  frightened  them 
away."  The  next  mile  or  two  was  passed,  and 
still  they  saw  no  buffalo  between  the  trail  and  the 
river ;  but  nothing  more  was  said  relative  to  the 
suspicious  circumstance,  and  they  rolled  rapidly 
on. 

When  about  five  or  six  miles  from  Zarah,  on 
glancing  toward  the  river,  to  the  left  and  front, 


68  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

Booth  saw  something  that  looked  strangely  like  a 
drove  of  turkeys ;  he  watched  them  intently  for  a 
few  minutes,  when  they  rose  up,  and  he  discov- 
ered they  were  horsemen.  He  grasped  Hallowell's 
left  arm,  and  directed  his  attention  to  them,  say- 
ing, "What's  that?"  Hallowell  cast  a  hasty 
look  to  the  point  indicated,  and  replying,  "In- 
dians, by  George !  "  immediately  turned  the  mules 
and  started  them  back  toward  Fort  Zarah  on  a 
full  gallop. 

"Hold  on,"  said  Booth;  "maybe  it  is  a  part 
of  our  escort." 

"No,  no,"  replied  Hallowell ;  "I  know  it's  In- 
dians." 

"Well,"  replied  Booth,  "I  am  going  to  see;  " 
BO,  stepping  out  on  the  footboard  and  holding 
onto  the  front  bow,  he  looked  back  over  the  top 
of  the  wagon.  There  was  no  doubt  now  that  they 
were  Indians.  They  had  fully  emerged  from  the 
ravines  in  which  they  were  hidden,  and  while  he 
was  looking  were  slipping  their  buffalo  robes  from 
their  shoulders,  taking  arrows  out  of  their  quiv- 
ers, drawing  up  their  spears,  and  making  ready 
generally  for  a  red-hot  time.  While  Booth  was 
intently  watching  their  hostile  movements,  Hal- 
lowell asked,  "They  are  Indians,  aren't  they? " 

"Yes,"  replied  Booth,  "and  they  are  coming 
like  blazes!  " 


A   RACE    FOR   LIFE  69 

* 

"Oh,  dearl"  said  Hallowell,  in  a  despairing 
tone;  "I  shall  never  see  poor  Lizzie  again."  He 
had  been  married  for  only  a  few  weeks,  and  hia 
young  wife's  name  was  Lizzie. 

"Never  mind  Lizzie,"  said  Booth;  "let's  get 
out  of  here!"  Although  he  was  as  badly  fright- 
ened as  Hallowell,  he  had  no  bride  at  Riley,  and 
as  he  tells  it,  "was  selfishly  thinking  of  himself 
and  escape." 

Promptly  in  response  to  Booth's  remark  came 
back  from  Hallowell  in  a  firm  voice,  clear  and 
determined  as  ever  issued  from  mortal  throat: 
"All  right;  you  do  the  shooting  and  I'll  do  the 
driving,"  and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he 
snatched  the  whip  out  of  Booth's  hand,  slipped 
from  the  seat  to  the  front  of  the  wagon  and  com- 
menced lashing  the  mules. 

Booth  then  crawled  back,  pulled  one  of  his  re- 
volvers— he  had  two,  Hallowell  only  one — then 
crept,  or  rather  fell,  over  the  "lazy-back"  of  the 
seat,  reached  the  hole  made  by  the  puckering  of 
the  sheet,  and  counted  the  Indians.  Thirty-four 
feather  -  bedecked,  paint  -  bedaubed  savages,  as 
vicious-looking  an  outfit  as  ever  scalped  a  white 
man,  were  coming  down  upon  them  like  a  hawk 
&pon  a  chicken. 

Booth  had  hardly  reached  his  place  at  the  back 


70  TALES   OF   THE   TRAIL 

of  the  wagon  before  Hallowell,  between  his  yells 
to  the  mules,  cried  out,  "How  far  off  are  they 
now,  Cap.?" — for  he  could  see  nothing  in  the 
rear  as  he  Bat. 

Booth  answered  him  as  well  as  he  could,  and 
Hallowell  renewed  his  lashing  and  yelling. 

Noiselessly  the  Indians  gained,  for  as  yet  they 
had  not  uttered  a  whoop. 

Again  Hallowell  asked,  "How  far  off  are  they 
now,  Cap.?"  and  again  Booth  gave  him  an  idea 
of  the  distance  between  them  and  their  merciless 
foe.  From  him  Hallowell  gathered  fresh  inspira- 
tion for  fresh  yells  and  still  more  vigorous  blows. 

Booth  was  sitting  on  a  box  containing  crack- 
ers, sardines,  etc.,  watching  the  approach  of  the 
cut- throats,  and  saw  with  fear  and  trembling  the 
ease  with  which  they  gained  upon  the  little 
wagon.  He  realized  then  that  safety  did  not 
lie  in  flight  alone,  and  that  something  besides 
mules'  heels  would  be  necessary  to  preserve  their 
scalp-locks. 

Once  more  Hallowell  inquired  the  distance  be- 
tween the  pursued  and  pursuing,  but  before  Booth 
could  answer,  two  shots  were  fired  by  the  rifles 
from  the  Indians,  accompanied  by  a  yell  that 
was  enough  to  make  the  blood  curdle  in  one's 
veins,  and  no  reply  was  needed  to  acquaint  the 


A  BACE   FOB  LIFE  71 

valorous  driver  that  the  fiends  were  sufficiently 
near  to  commence  making  trouble.  He  yelled  at 
the  mules,  and  down  came  the  whip  upon  the 
poor  animals'  backs.  Booth  yelled,  for  what  rea- 
son he  did  not  know,  unless  to  keep  company 
with  Hallowell,  while  the  wagon  flew  over  the 
rough  road  like  a  patent  baby-jumper.  The  bul- 
lets from  the  two  rifles  passed  through  the  wagon- 
cover  immediately  between  the  officers,  but  did 
no  damage;  and  almost  instantly  the  Indians 
charged  down  upon  them,  dividing  into  two  par- 
ties, one  going  on  each  side,  and  delivering  a  volley 
of  arrows  into  the  wagon  as  they  rode  by. 

Just  as  they  darted  past  the  mules,  Hallowell 
cried  out,  "Cap.,  I'm  hit!"  and  turning  around 
to  look  at  him,  Booth  saw  an  arrow  sticking  in 
his  head  above  his  right  ear;  his  arm  was  still 
plying  the  whip,  which  was  going  as  unceasingly 
as  the  sails  of  a  windmill,  and  his  yelling  only 
stopped  long  enough  to  answer,  "Not  much,"  in 
response  to  Booth's  "  Does  it  hurt?  "as  he  grab- 
bed the  arrow  and  pulled  it  out  of  his  head. 

The  Indians  by  this  time  had  passed  on,  and 
then,  circling  back,  prepared  for  another  charge. 

Booth  had  already  fired  at  them  three  or  four 
times,  but  owing  to  the  distance,  the  jumping  of 
the  wagon,  and  the  "unsteadiness  of  his  nerves," 


72  TALES   OF   THE   TRAIL 

as  he  declared,  the  shots  had  not  decreased  to  any 
material  extent  the  number  of  their  assailants. 

Down  came  the  red  devils  again,  dividing  as  be- 
fore, and  delivering  another  lot  of  arrows.  Hal- 
lowell  stopped  yelling  long  enough  to  cry  out, 
"I'm  hit  again,  Cap.  1" 

Looking  around,  Booth  saw  an  arrow  sticking 
in  Hallowell's  head,  just  over  his  left  ear  this 
time,  and  hanging  down  his  back  like  an  orna- 
ment. He  snatched  it  out,  asked  Hallowell  if  it 
hurt  him,  but  received  the  same  answer  as  before 
— "No;  not  much." 

Both  were  yelling  at  the  top  of  their  voices, 
the  mules  were  jerking  the  wagon  along  at  a  fear- 
ful rate — frightened  nearly  out  of  their  wits  at 
the  sight  of  the  Indians  and  the  shouting  and 
whipping  of  their  drivers.  Booth,  crawling  to 
the  back  end  of  the  wagon  again  and  looking 
out,  saw  the  Indians  moving  across  the  trail, 
preparing  for  another  charge.  One  old  fellow 
mounted  on  a  black  pony  was  jogging  along  in 
the  center  of  the  road  behind  them,  quite  near, 
and  evidently  intent  on  sending  an  arrow  through 
the  puckered  hole  of  the  wagon-sheet.  As  Booth 
looked  out,  the  Indian  stopped  his  pony  and  let 
fly.  Booth  dodged  back  sideways ;  the  arrow  sped 
on  in  its  course,  and  came  whizzing  through  the 


A  RACE   FOR   LIFE  73 

hole  and  struck  the  black- walnut  "lazy-back"  of 
the  seat,  the  head  sticking  entirely  through,  the 
sudden  checking  causing  the  feathered  end  to  vi- 
brate rapidly  with  a  vro-o-o-ing  sound.  With  a 
sudden  blow  Booth  struck  it,  breaking  the  shaft 
from  the  head,  leaving  the  latter  imbedded  in  the 
wood. 

As  quick  as  he  could,  Booth  rushed  to  the  hole 
and  fired  at  his  aged  opponent,  but  failed  to  hit 
him.  While  he  was  trying  to  get  another  shot  at 
him,  an  arrow  came  flying  from  the  left  side,  and 
struck  him  on  the  inside  of  the  elbow,  hitting  the 
nerve  or  "crazy-bone,"  which  so  benumbed  his 
hand  and  arm  that  he  could  not  hold  on  to  his 
revolver,  and  it  dropped  from  his  hand  to  the 
road  with  one  load  still  in  its  chamber.  Just 
then  the  mules  gave  an  extra  jump,  which  nearly 
jerked  the  wagon  from  under  him,  and  he  fell  on 
the  end-gate,  evenly  balanced,  with  his  hands 
sprawling  outside,  attempting  to  clutch  at  some- 
thing to  save  himself. 

At  this  the  Indians  gave  a  terrible  yell — of 
exultation,  probably,  supposing  Booth  was  going 
to  fall  out;  but  he  didn't.  He  caught  hold  of 
one  of  the  wagon-bows  and  pulled  himself  in 
again,  terribly  scared.  It  was  a  "close  call" 
and  no  mistake! 


74  TALE8    OF    THE   TRAIL 

While  all  this  was  going  on,  Hallowell  had  not 
been  neglected  by  the  incarnate  fiends ;  about  a 
dozen  of  them  had  devoted  their  time  and  atten- 
tion to  him,  but  he  had  not  flinched.  Just  as 
Booth  had  regained  his  equilibrium  and  drawn 
the  second  revolver  from  his  holster,  Hallowell 
yelled,  "  Right  off  to  the  right,  Cap. —  quick  1  " 

Booth  tumbled  over  the  back  of  the  seat,  clutch- 
ing at  a  bow  to  steady  himself,  and  "  right  off  to 
the  right "  was  an  Indian  just  letting  fly  at  Hal- 
lowell. The  arrow  struck  the  side  of  the  wagon; 
Booth  at  the  instant  fired  at  the  Indian,  missed 
him  of  course — but  he  was  badly  scared,  and 
throwing  himself  on  the  opposite  side  of  his 
pony,  scooted  off  over  the  prairie. 

Back  over  the  seat  Booth  piled  again  to  guard 
the  rear,  where  he  found  a  young  buck  riding 
close  behind  and  to  the  right  of  the  wagon,  his 
pony  following  the  trail  made  by  the  ox-drivers 
in  walking  beside  their  teams.  Putting  his  arm 
around  one  of  the  wagon-bows,  to  prevent  being 
jerked  out,  Booth  quickly  stuck  his  revolver 
through  the  hole;  but  before  he  could  fire,  the 
Indian  flopped  over  on  the  side  of  his  pony,  and 
all  that  could  be  seen  of  him  was  his  arm  around 
the  pony's  neck,  and  from  the  knee  down,  one 
leg.  Booth  did  not  fire,  but  waited  for  him  to 


A  BACE   FOB  LIFE  75 

come  up  —  he  could  almost  hit  the  pony's  head 
with  hie  hand,  so  closely  was  he  running.  He 
struck  at  it  several  times,  but  the  Indian  kept 
him  close  up  by  whipping  him  on  the  opposite 
side  of  his  neck.  Presently  the  Indian's  arm  be- 
gan to  work,  and  Booth  looking  saw  that  he  had 
fixed  an  arrow  in  his  bow  behind  the  pony's 
shoulder,  and  was  just  on  the  point  of  shoot- 
ing at  him,  with  the  head  of  the  arrow  not  three 
feet  from  his  breast  as  he  leaned  out  of  the  hole 
in  the  wagon-sheet.  Booth  struck  frantically  at 
the  arrow  and  dodged  back  into  the  wagon.  Up 
came  the  Indian,  but  Booth  went  out  again,  for 
he  realized  that  the  Indian  had  to  be  gotten  away 
from  there,  as  he  would  make  trouble.  Whenever 
Booth  went  out,  down  went  the  Indian;  up  he 
rose  in  a  moment  again,  but  Booth  fearing  to  risk 
himself  with  his  head  and  breast  exposed  at  this 
game  of  "hide-and-seek,"  drew  back  as  the  In- 
dian went  down  the  third  time,  and  in  a  second 
up  he  came  again  —  but  this  was  once  too  often. 
Booth  had  only  gotten  partly  in  and  had  not 
dropped  his  revolver,  and  as  the  Indian  rose,  in- 
stinctively, and  without  taking  aim,  fired. 

The  ball  struck  the  Indian  in  the  left  nipple 
(  he  was  naked  to  the  waist ) ,  the  blood  spurted 
out  of  the  wound  almost  to  the  wagon,  his  bow 


76  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

and  arrow  and  lariat-rope  dropped,  he  fell  back 
on  the  pony's  rump  and  rolled  from  there  heav- 
ily onto  the  ground,  where,  after  a  convulsive 
straightening  of  his  legs  and  a  characteristic 
"Ugh!  "  he  lay  as  quiet  as  a  stone. 

"I've  killed  one  of  them,  Hallowelll"  yelled 
out  Booth,  as  the  Indian  tumbled  off  his  pony. 

"Bully  for  you  I  "  came  back  the  response ;  and 
then  he  continued  his  shouting,  and  the  blows  of 
that  tireless  whip  fell  incessantly  upon  the  mules. 

All  the  Indians  that  were  in  the  rear  and  saw 
the  young  warrior  fall,  rode  up  to  him,  circling 
around  his  dead  body,  uttering  the  most  un- 
earthly yells, —  but  different  from  anything  they 
had  given  vent  to  before. 

Hallowell,  from  his  cramped  position  in  front, 
noticed  the  change  in  their  tone,  and  asked, "What 
are  they  doing  now,  Cap.?  " 

Booth  explained  to  him,  and  Hallowell's  re- 
sponse was  more  vociferous  yelling  and  harder 
blows  upon  the  poor  galloping  mules. 

Booth  was  still  sitting  on  the  cracker-box, 
watching  the  maneuvers  of  the  Indians,  when 
suddenly  Hallowell  sang  out,  "  Right  off  to  the 
right,  Cap. —  quick!"  which  startled  him,  and 
whirling  around  instantly,  he  saw  an  Indian 
within  three  feet  of  the  wagon,  with  his  bow 


A   RACE    FOR   LIFE  77 

and  arrow  almost  ready  to  shoot.  There  was  no 
time  to  get  over  the  seat,  and  as  he  could  not  fire 
by  Hallowell,  he  cried  out,  "Hit  him  with  the 
whip  I  Hit  him  with  the  whip  1  "  The  lieutenant, 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  simply  diverted 
one  of  the  blows  intended  for  the  mules,  and 
struck  the  Indian  fair  across  the  face. 

The  whip  had  a  knot  on  the  end  of  it  to  keep  it 
from  unraveling,  and  this  knot  must  have  hit  the 
Indian  in  the  eye,  for  he  dropped  his  bow,  put  his 
hands  up  to  his  face,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  digging 
his  heel  into  the  left  side  of  his  pony,  was  soon 
out  of  reach  of  a  revolver,  but  nevertheless  he  was 
given  a  parting  shot  —  a  sort  of  salute,  for  it  was 
harmless. 

A  terrific  yell  from  the  rear  at  this  moment 
caused  Booth  to  look  around,  and  Hallowell  to 
inquire,  "  What's  the  matter  now?  "  "  They  are 
coming  down  upon  us  like  lightning!"  replied 
Booth;  and  sure  enough,  those  who  had  been 
prancing  around  their  dead  comrade  were  coming 
toward  the  wagon  like  a  whirlwind,  and  with  a 
whoop  more  deafening  and  hideous  than  any  that 
had  preceded  it. 

Hallowell  yelled  louder  than  ever  and  lashed 
the  mules  more  furiously  still,  but  the  Indians 
gained  on  them  as  easily  as  a  blooded  racer  on  a 


78  TALES    OF   THE   TRAIL 

common  farm  plug.  Separating  as  before,  and 
passing  on  each  side  of  the  wagon,  the  Indiana 
delivered  another  volley  as  they  charged  by. 

As  this  charge  was  made,  Booth  drew  away 
from  the  hole  in  the  rear  of  the  wagon -cover 
and  turned  his  seat  toward  the  Indians,  but  for- 
got in  the  moment  of  excitement  that,  in  the 
manner  that  he  was  sitting,  his  back  pressed 
against  the  sheet,  his  body  probably  plainly  out- 
lined on  the  outside. 

When  the  Indians  rushed  by  and  delivered  their 
Btorm  of  arrows,  Hallowell  cried  out,  "I'm  hit 
again,  Cap.!  "  and  Booth,  in  turning  around  to 
go  to  his  relief,  felt  something  pulling  at  him. 
Glancing  over  his  left  shoulder  to  learn  the  cause 
of  his  trouble,  he  discovered  an  arrow  sticking 
into  him  and  out  through  the  wagon-sheet.  With 
a  jerk  of  his  body  he  tore  it  loose,  and  going  to 
Hallowell,  asked,  "Where  are  you  hit  now?" 
"In  the  back,"  he  answered;  where  on  looking 
Booth  saw  an  arrow  sticking,  the  shaft  extending 
under  the  "  lazy-back  "  of  the  seat.  Taking  hold 
of  it,  he  gave  it  a  pull,  but  Hallowell  squirmed  so 
that  he  desisted.  "  Pull  it  outl  Pull  it  out!  " 
he  cried.  Booth  thereupon  took  hold  of  it  again, 
and,  giving  a  jerk  or  two,  out  it  came.  He  was 
thoroughly  frightened  as  he  saw  it  leave  the  lieu- 


A  RACE   FOB   LIFE  79 

tenant's  body,  for  it  seemed  to  have  entered  at 
least  six  inches,  and  looked  as  if  it  must  have 
made  a  dangerous  wound ;  but  Hallowell  did  not 
cease  belaboring  the  mules,  and  his  yells,  accom- 
panied by  the  blows,  rang  out  as  clear  as  before. 

After  pulling  out  the  arrow,  Booth  turned  again 
to  the  opening  at  the  rear  of  the  wagon,  to  see 
what  new  tricks  the  miscreants  were  up  to,  when 
Hallowell  yelled  again,  "Right  off  to  the  left, 
Cap. —  quick  1  " 

Rushing  to  the  front  of  the  wagon  as  soon  as 
possible,  Booth  saw  an  Indian  in  the  act  of  shoot- 
ing at  the  lieutenant  from  the  left  side,  and  about 
ten  feet  away.  The  last  revolver  was  empty,  but 
something  had  to  be  done  at  once ;  so,  leveling  the 
weapon  at  him,  Booth  yelled,  "Bang!  you  son- 
of-a-gunl  " 

Down  went  the  Indian ;  rap,  rap,  went  his  knees 
against  his  pony's  sides,  and  away  he  flew  over 
the  prairie. 

Back  over  the  seat  Booth  tumbled,  and  began 
to  load  his  revolver.  The  cartridges  they  had  in 
those  days  were  the  old-fashioned  paper  kind, 
and  biting  off  the  end  of  one  he  would  endeavor 
to  pour  the  powder  into  the  chamber,  but  the 
wagon  was  tumbling  from  side  to  side  and  jump- 
ing up  and  down  as  it  flew  over  the  rough  trail, 


80  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

and  more  of  the  powder  went  into  the  bottom  of 
the  wagon  than  into  the  revolver. 

Just  as  he  was  inserting  a  ball  in  the  chamber, 
Hallowell  cried  out  again,  "  Right  off  to  the  left, 
Cap. — quick!  "  Over  the  seat  Booth  went  once 
more,  and  there  was  another  Indian,  with  his  bow 
and  arrow  in  his  hand,  all  ready  to  plug  the  lieu- 
tenant. Pointing  his  revolver  at  him,  Booth 
yelled  as  he  had  at  the  other,  but  the  Indian  had 
evidently  noticed  the  failure  to  fire  at  the  first, 
and  concluded  that  there  were  no  more  loads  left ; 
BO,  instead  of  taking  a  hasty  departure  as  his  com- 
rade had  done,  he  grinned  a  demoniacal  grin  and 
endeavored  to  fix  the  arrow  into  his  bow. 

Thoroughly  frightened  now  at  the  aspect  things 
were  assuming,  Booth  rose  up  in  the  wagon,  and 
grasping  hold  of  a  bow  with  his  left  hand,  seized 
the  revolver  by  the  muzzle,  and  with  all  the  force 
he  could  muster,  hurled  it  at  the  impudent  brute. 
It  was  a  new  Remington  octagon  barrel,  with 
sharp  corners,  and  when  it  was  thrown  turned 
in  the  air,  striking  the  Indian,  muzzle  first,  on 
the  ribs,  cutting  a  long  gash. 

"  Ugh  I  "  grunted  the  Indian,  and  dropping  his 
long  spear  and  bow,  he  flung  himself  over  the  side 
of  the  pony,  and  away  he  went  over  the  prairie, 
to  bother  them  no  more. 


A   RACE    FOR   LIFE  81 

Only  the  one  revolver  left  now,  and  that  empty, 
and  the  Indians  still  howling  around  the  appar- 
ently doomed  men  like  so  many  demons. 

After  he  had  driven  the  Indian  off,  Booth  fell 
over  the  seat,  picked  up  the  empty  revolver  and 
attempted  to  load ;  but  before  he  could  bite  off  a 
cartridge,  Hallowell  yelled  again,  "I'm  hit  again, 
Cap.!" 

"Where  are  you  hit  now?"  asked  the  gallant 
captain. 

"  In  the  hand,"  replied  Hallowell. 

Looking  around,  Booth  saw  his  right  arm  was 
plying  the  whip  to  the  now  laggard  mules,  and 
sticking  through  the  fleshy  part  of  his  thumb  was 
an  arrow,  which  was  flopping  up  and  down  as  his 
arm  rose  and  fell  in  its  ceaseless  and  evidently 
tireless  efforts  to  keep  up  the  speed  of  the  almost 
exhausted  animals. 

"  Let  me  pull  it  out,"  said  Booth. 

"No,  never  mind,"  said  Hallowell;  "can't 
stop,  can't  stop" — and  up  and  down  went  his 
arm,  and  flip-flap  went  the  arrow  with  it,  until 
finally  it  tore  through  the  flesh  and  fell  to  the 
ground. 

Along  they  bowled,  the  Indians  yelling  and  the 
occupants  of  the  wagon  defiantly  answering  them, 
while  Booth  was  still  making  a  desperate  but  vain 
—6 


82  TALES    OF   THE   TRAIL 

effort  to  load  the  revolver.  In  a  few  moments 
Hallowell  shouted,  "  They  are  crowding  the  mules 
into  the  sunflowers  I  "  , 

Along  the  sides  of  the  trail  huge  sunflowers  had 
grown  the  previous  summer,  and  now  their  dry- 
stalks  stood  as  thick  as  a  canebrake,  and  if  the 
wagon  once  got  among  them  the  mules  could  not 
keep  up  their  gallop,  and  would  soon  be  compelled 
to  stop. 

The  Indians  seemed  to  realize  this  fact,  and  one 
huge  fellow  kept  riding  beside  the  off  mule  and 
throwing  his  spear  at  him  and  then  jerking  it 
back  with  the  thong,  one  end  of  which  was  fast- 
ened to  his  wrist,  the  other  to  the  shaft  of  the 
spear.  The  mule  on  the  side  next  the  Indian  was 
jumping  frantically  and  pushing  the  near  mule 
from  the  road. 

Stepping  out  on  the  footboard,  and  holding  a 
bow  with  one  hand,  Booth  commenced  kicking 
the  mule  vigorously.  Hallowell,  meanwhile,  was 
pulling  on  one  line,  whipping  and  yelling ;  so  to- 
gether they  forced  the  animals  back  into  the 
trail,  and  away  they  shot  at  the  top  of  their 
speed. 

The  Indian  kept  close  to  the  mules,  and  Booth 
made  several  attempts  to  scare  him  by  pointing 
his  revolver  at  him;  but  he  would  not  scare,  so 


A   RACE    FOR   LIFE  83 

he  threw  it  at  him.  It  missed  the  Indian,  but 
struck  the  pony  just  behind  the  rider's  leg,  which 
started  the  latter  off  over  the  prairie,  thus  remov- 
ing the  immediate  peril  from  that  source. 

They  were  now  absolutely  without  firearms — 
nothing  left  but  their  sabers  and  valises ;  and  the 
Indians,  soon  learning  that  there  were  no  more 
shots  to  be  fired,  came  closer  and  closer. 

In  turn  the  two  sabers  were  thrown  at  them,  as 
they  came  almost  within  striking  distance ;  then 
followed  the  scabbards  after  the  yelling  fiends,  as 
they  surrounded  the  wagon.  Some  rode  imme- 
diately in  front  of  the  mules,  impeding  their 
progress  with  the  most  infernal  noises  and  at- 
tempts to  spear  them  (the  Indians  having  evi- 
dently exhausted  all  their  arrows)  — and  the 
camp  on  the  Walnut  still  a  mile  and  a  half 
away. 

There  was  nothing  left  for  our  luckless  travel- 
ers to  do  but  whip  and  kick  the  mules  and  yell, 
all  of  which  they  did  most  lustily — Hallowell 
sitting  as  immovable  as  a  sphinx,  except  his  right 
arm,  which  from  the  time  he  had  started  had  not 
ceased,  and  Booth  kicking  the  poor  animals  and 
shouting  in  concert  with  their  importunate  foe. 
Looking  casually  over  the  seat,  Booth  saw  twelve 
or  fifteen  Indians  coming  up  behind,  with  their 


84  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

spears  all  unstrung  and  ready  for  action,  and  he 
felt  that  something  must  be  done,  and  that  right 
speedily,  to  divert  them ;  for  if  these  were  added 
to  the  number  already  surrounding  the  wagon, 
the  chances  were  they  would  succeed  in  forcing 
the  mules  from  the  trail,  and  the  end  of  the 
tragedy  would  soon  come. 

Glancing  around  the  bottom  of  the  wagon, 
in  his  despair,  for  some  kind  of  weapon  with 
which  to  resist  them,  Booth's  eye  rested  upon  the 
valises  containing  the  dress  suits,  and  snatching 
his,  threw  it  out,  while  his  pursuers  were  yet  some 
four  or  five  rods  behind.  The  Indians  noticed 
these  new  tricks  with  a  yell  of  apparent  satisfac- 
tion, and  as  soon  as  they  reached  the  valise  they 
all  dismounted,  and  one  of  them  grabbed  it  by 
the  two  handles  and  attempted  to  open  it ;  fail- 
ing in  this,  another  drew  a  long  knife  from  under 
his  blanket,  and,  ripping  up  one  side,  thrust  iu 
his  hand  and  pulled  out  a  sash,  and  began  wind- 
ing it  around  his  head  (as  a  negro  woman  winds 
a  bandana),  letting  the  tassels  hang  down  his 
back. 

While  he  was  thus  amusing  himself,  another 
had  pulled  out  a  dress  coat,  a  third  a  pair  of 
drawers,  still  another  a  shirt  —  all  of  which  they 
individually  proceeded  to  put  on,  meanwhile  danc- 
ing around  and  yelling. 


A   RACE    FOR   LIFE  85 

Booth  reported  to  Hallowell  how  the  sacrifice 
of  his  valise  had  diverted  the  Indians,  and  said, 
"I'm  going  to  throw  out  yours." 

"All  right,"  he  replied;  "let  her  go;  all  we 
want  is  time."  So  out  it  went,  and  shared  the 
same  fate  as  the  other. 

As  long  as  the  Indians  were  busy  helping  them- 
selves to  the  wardrobes  contained  in  the  two  va- 
lises, they  were  not  bothering  the  mules,  and  as 
Hallowell  had  said,  "  all  they  wanted  was  time." 

But  while  the  diversion  was  going  on  in  the 
rear,  the  devils  on  each  side  and  front  were  still 
attempting  to  force  the  mules  from  the  road  by 
rushing  at  them  and  yelling,  and  brandishing 
their  spears;  none  of  them  had  as  yet  tried  to 
kill  them,  evidently  thinking  they  could  wound 
the  two  officers  and  secure  them  alive  —  a  prize 
too  valuable  for  an  Indian  to  lose.  But  as  they 
were  now  drawing  near  the  creek,  on  the  opposite 
bank  of  which  the  camp  was  situated,  and  the 
chance  of  escape  grew  brighter,  one  miserable  cut- 
throat of  the  band  apparently  conceived  the  idea 
of  killing  one  of  the  mules,  for  he  charged  down 
on  the  wagon,  rode  close  up  to  one,  and  discharg- 
ing his  arrow  at  him,  struck  him  on  the  fore  leg, 
severing  a  small  artery,  from  which  the  blood 
epurted  by  jerks.  The  mules  had  no  blinds  ou 


00  TALES   OF   THE    TRAIL 

their  bridles,  and  the  one  hurt,  seeing  the  blood, 
became  so  frightened  that  he  gave  a  terrific  jump 
and  started  off  at  a  break-neck  gait,  dragging  the 
other  mule  and  the  wagon  after  him ;  so  all  the 
occupants  had  now  to  do  was  to  pound  and  kick 
the  uninjured  one  to  make  him  keep  up. 

This  fresh  spurt  of  speed  had  carried  them  away 
from  the  Indians,  but  Booth  and  Hallowell  knew 
that  the  animals  could  not  continue  it,  and  they 
became  convinced  that  the  Indians  now  meant  to 
kill  one  or  both  of  the  mules  in  order  to  stop 
them. 

The  lull  caused  by  the  mules  outstripping  the 
Indians  gave  our  almost  despairing  heroes  time  to 
talk  the  matter  over. 

Hallowell  said  he  did  not  propose  to  be  cap- 
tured and  taken  to  Medicine  Lodge  creek,  or  some 
other  place,  and  then  butchered  or  burned  at  the 
leisure  of  the  Indians.  He  said  to  Booth,  "If 
they  kill  a  mule  and  we  stop,  let's  kick,  strike, 
throw  clods  or  anything,  and  compel  them  to  kill 
us  on  the  spot."  So  they  agreed,  if  worst  came 
to  worst,  to  stand  back  to  back  and  fight  them 
off. 

This  may  seem  overdrawn  to  many  of  our  read- 
ers of  to-day ;  but  if  they  have  ever  Been  the  re- 
mains of  men  and  women  hacked  and  mutilated, 


A   RACE    FOB    LIFE  87 

as  the  writer  has,  and  realize  as  fully  as  the  oc- 
cupants of  the  little  wagon  did  that  such  a  fate 
awaited  them  in  the  event  of  capture,  they  too 
would  have  courted  death  sudden,  certain,  and 
immediate,  in  preference  to  that  other,  more  re- 
mote but  just  as  sure,  and  far  more  terrible. 

During  the  discussion  of  the  situation  by  Booth 
and  Hallowell,  the  speed  of  the  mules  had  slack- 
ened but  little ;  the  arm  of  the  latter  still  plied 
that  effective  lash,  and  they  drew  perceptibly 
nearer  the  camp,  where  there  were  men  enough 
to  rescue  them  if  they  could  only  be  made  aware 
of  their  situation;  and  as  they  caught  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  tents  of  the  officers  and  dugouts 
of  the  men,  hope  sprang  up  within  them,  and 
life,  hanging  as  it  were  by  a  slender  cord,  seemed 
more  precious  than  ever.  In  the  hope  of  arous- 
ing and  attracting  the  attention  of  some  of  the 
soldiers,  they  again  commenced  yelling  at  the 
top  of  their  voices ;  the  mules  were  panting  like 
hounds  on  the  chase;  wherever  the  harness 
touched  them  it  was  white  with  lather,  and 
they  could  not  keep  on  their  feet  much  longer. 

Would  they  hold  out  until  the  bridge  was 
reached,  provided  they  escaped  the  spears  of 
the  Indians?  The  whipping  and  kicking  had 
little  effect  on  them  now;  they  still  continued 


88  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

in  their  gallop,  but  it  was  slower  and  more  la- 
bored than  before,  and  as  the  Indians  fell  back 
to  make  fresh  charges,  the  mules  also  slackened 
their  gait,  and  it  became  almost  impossible  to 
accelerate  their  motion. 

Hallowell  kept  his  whip  going  mechanically, 
and  Booth  continued  his  attention  to  the  little 
near  mule  with  his  foot;  but  the  worn-out  ani- 
mals began  to  evince  unmistakable  signs  of  break- 
ing down,  and  longing  eyes  were  turned  toward 
the  camp,  now  so  near. 

Though  the  Indians  who  had  torn  open  the 
satchels  had  not  come  up,  and  did  not  seem  in- 
clined to  further  continue  the  fight,  there  was 
still  a  sufficient  number  of  the  fiends  pursuing  to 
make  it  interesting ;  but  they  could  not  succeed 
in  spearing  the  mules,  as  at  each  attempt  the 
plucky  animals  would  jump  sideways  or  forward 
and  evade  the  impending  blow. 

One  gigantic  fellow  followed  them  with  a  de- 
termination and  valor  worthy  of  a  better  cause, 
the  others  seeming  now  to  have  almost  abandoned 
the  idea  of  capturing  either  men  or  animals ;  but 
this  persistent  warrior  was  in  all  probability  re- 
lated to  the  young  "buck"  Booth  had  killed,  and 
was  thirsting  for  revenge.  At  any  rate,  he  was 
loth  to  give  up  the  chase,  and  followed  the  wagon 


A   RACE    FOB   LIFE  89 

to  within  a  few  rods  of  the  bridge,  long  after  the 
other  Indians  had  fallen  back  entirely. 

The  little  log  bridge  was  now  reached;  their 
pursuers  had  all  retreated,  but  the  valorous  Hal- 
lowell  kept  the  mules  at  the  same  galloping  gait. 
This  bridge  was  constructed  of  half-round  logs, 
and  of  course  was  extremely  rough.  The  wagon 
bounded  up  and  down  enough  to  shake  the  teeth 
out  of  one's  head,  as  the  mules  went  flying  over 
the  rude  structure.  Booth  cried  out  to  Hallowell, 
"  No  need  to  drive  so  fast  now — the  Indians  have 
all  left;  "  but  he  answered: 

"I  ain't  going  to  stop  until  I  get  across,"  and 
down  came  the  whip,  on  sped  the  mules,  not 
breaking  their  gallop  until  they  pulled  up  in 
front  of  Capt.  Conkey's  tent.  Booth  could  not 
stand  the  fearful  bounding  of  the  wagon  as  it 
rolled  across  the  bridge,  so  he  crawled  out  be- 
hind and  walked  up  to  the  quarters. 

The  rattling  of  the  wagon  on  the  bridge  was 
the  first  intimation  the  command  had  of  its  re- 
turning. The  sentinel  on  the  post  had  been  walk- 
ing his  beat  on  the  east  side  of  the  long  stockade 
stable  to  keep  out  of  the  cold  northwest  wind, 
and  had  heard  nothing  of  the  yelling  and  talk- 
ing until  they  struck  the  bridge,  when  he  came 
around  the  stable,  saw  the  wagon  and  two  or 


90  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

three  of  the  Indians  behind,  fired  his  carbine, 
and  thus  aroused  the  camp. 

The  officers  came  running  out  of  their  tents, 
the  men  poured  out  of  their  dugouts  like  a  lot 
of  ants,  and  the  wagon  and  its  occupants  were 
soon  surrounded  by  their  friends.  Capt.  Conkey 
ordered  the  bugler  to  sound  "boots  and  saddles," 
and  in  less  than  ten  minutes  ninety  troopers  were 
mounted,  and,  with  the  Captain  at  their  head, 
started  after  the  Indians. 

Lieut.  Hallowell  reached  the  line  of  officers' 
tents  before  Booth,  and  as  the  latter  came  up  was 
attempting  to  rise  so  as  to  get  out ;  but  each  ef- 
fort only  resulted  in  his  falling  back.  It  was 
thought  at  first  his  wounds  were  the  cause,  but 
when  asked,  "What's  the  matter?  Can't  you 
get  out?"  replied,  "I  don't  know.  I  seem  to 
get  up  only  so  far."  Some  one  stepped  around 
to  the  other  side  to  assist  him,  when  it  was  dis- 
covered that  the  skirt  of  his  overcoat  had  worked 
outside  the  wagon-sheet  and  hung  over  the  edge, 
and  that  three  or  four  of  the  arrows  fired  by  the 
Indians  had  struck  the  side  of  the  wagon,  and 
passing  through  the  flap  of  his  coat,  had  pinned 
him  down.  Booth  pulled  the  arrows  out  and 
helped  him  up.  He  was  pretty  stiff  from  sit- 
ting in  his  cramped  position  so  long,  and  his 


A    EACE    FOB    LIFE  91 

right  arm.  dropped  to  his  side  as  if  struck  with 
paralysis. 

While  Hallowell  walked  into  Capt.  donkey's 
tent,  assisted  by  the  adjutant  and  quartermas- 
ter, some  of  the  soldiers  unhitched  the  poor 
mules  and  led  them  to  the  corral.  On  examin- 
ing the  inside  of  the  wagon,  twenty-two  arrows 
were  found  lying  in  the  bottom,  innumerable 
holes  through  the  sheet  made  by  the  passage  of 
arrows,  besides  two  from  bullets,  and  the  outside 
of  the  bed  was  scarred  from  one  end  to  the 
other. 

Booth  stood  looking  on  while  Hallowell's 
wounds  were  being  dressed,  when  the  adjutant 
said,  "What  makes  you  shrug  your  shoulders 
so,  Captain?"  Booth  replied  that  he  "did  not 
know;  something  caused  it  to  smart."  The  ad- 
jutant looked,  and  said,  "Well,  I  should  think 
it  would  smart  1  — here  is  an  arrow-head  sticking 
into  it;  "  and  he  tried  to  pull  it  out,  but  it  would 
not  come.  Capt.  Goldsborough  then  attempted 
it,  but  was  no  more  successful  than  the  adjutant. 
The  doctor  told  them  to  let  it  alone  and  he  would 
take  care  of  it  after  he  had  finished  with  Hallo- 
well,  which  he  soon  did,  and  with  his  lance  cut 
it  out.  The  point  of  the  arrow  had  struck  the 
thick  part  of  the  shoulder-blade  and  made  two 


92  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

complete  turns,  wrapping  around  the  muscles, 
which  had  to  be  cut  apart  before  it  could  be 
withdrawn. 

Both  of  the  principals  in  the  terrible  ride  were 
soon  attended  to  and  made  as  comfortable  as  pos- 
sible. Booth  was  not  seriously  hurt.  Hallowell, 
however,  had  received  two  severe  wounds :  the  ar- 
row that  had  struck  in  his  back  penetrated  al- 
most to  his  kidneys,  and  the  wound  in  his  thumb 
was  very  painful,  caused  not  so  much  by  the 
simple  contact  of  the  arrow,  as  the  tearing  away 
of  the  muscles  by  the  shaft  while  he  was  whip- 
ping the  mules ;  his  right  arm,  too,  was  swollen 
fearfully,  and  became  stiff,  from  the  incessant 
use  of  it  during  his  drive,  and  for  nearly  a  month 
he  required  help  in  dressing  and  undressing.  The 
mules,  the  veritable  saviors  of  our  heroes,  were  of 
little  account  after  their  memorable  trip ;  —  they 
remained  stiff  and  sore  from  the  rough  road  and 
their  continued  forced  speed.  Booth  and  Hallo- 
well  went  out  the  next  morning  to  take  a  look  at 
them  as  they  hobbled  around  the  corral,  and  from 
the  bottom  of  their  hearts  wished  them  "  green 
fields  and  pastures  new." 

About  half  an  hour  after  the  little  wagon  had 
returned  to  Capt.  donkey's  camp,  a  portion  of  the 
escort  which  had  been  sent  out  in  advance  in  the 


A   RACE   FOB  LIFE  93 

morning  came  galloping  up,  and  from  them  the 
following  was  learned  in  relation  to  their  move- 
ments: 

They  had  started  early,  as  ordered  the  night 
before,  and  moved  out  on  a  brisk  walk  toward 
Fort  Larned.  There  were  plenty  of  buffalo  011 
the  north  side  of  the  trail,  and  they  saw  no  signs 
of  Indians  except  the  absence  of  buffalo  near  the 
river.  They  kept  looking  back,  and  slackened 
their  gait  somewhat  after  getting  out  four  or  five 
miles,  to  enable  the  wagon  to  catch  up;  and  after 
they  had  proceeded  about  a  mile  beyond  the  point 
where  the  Indians  made  their  first  attack,  and  the 
wagon  had  been  turned  toward  the  camp,  one  of 
the  lieutenants  said  to  the  other  that  they  were 
getting  too  far  ahead  of  the  Captain,  and  sug« 
gested  the  propriety  of  halting ;  but  Van  Antwerp, 
who  was  in  command,  thought  it  better  to  leave  a 
part  of  the  company  at  that  spot  to  wait.  Accord* 
ingly,  a  corporal  and  fifteen  men  were  detailed  to 
remain  there  until  the  wagon  should  arrive,  and 
the  remainder  moved  on  toward  the  fort. 

The  squad  that  had  been  detailed  remained  be- 
side the  trail  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  when,  becom- 
ing chilled,  the  corporal  took  them  toward  the 
river  into  a  ravine  that  sheltered  both  men  and 
horses  from  the  cold  northwest  wind.  There  they 


9-1  TALES   OF   THE    TRAIL 

remained  some  time,  when  the  corporal,  becoming 
anxious,  sent  one  of  the  men  up  the  trail  to  see  if 
the  wagon  was  coming,  but  he  soon  returned,  re- 
porting nothing  in  sight.  Waiting  a  few  minutes 
longer,  he  sent  out  another  man,  who  on  returning 
reported  that  the  wagon  was  coming,  and  had  an 
escort.  This  last  man  had  seen  them  a  long  way 
off  while  the  Indians  were  chasing  them,  and  sup- 
posed they  were  an  escorting  party — which  was. 
correct  in  one  sense,  but  not  as  he  thought  and 
reported. 

Remaining  in  the  ravine  until  the  corporal 
supposed  the  wagon  had  arrived  nearly  opposite, 
he  moved  out  his  squad  on  the  trail,  but  seeing 
no  wagon,  and  suspecting  something  had  hap- 
pened, started  his  party  toward  the  camp  on 
Walnut  creek.  They  had  proceeded  but  a  short 
distance  when  one  of  his  men  cried  out,  "  Here  's 
an  arrow!  "  Hardly  were  the  words  out  of  his 
mouth  before  a  second  said,  "Here  's  another  1  " 
They  knew  now  the  reason  why  the  wagon  had 
not  come  up,  and  the  corporal  gave  the  command 
to  gallop,  and  away  they  flew  toward  the  camp. 
As  they  successively  passed  by  the  empty  valises 
and  the  innumerable  arrows  on  the  trail,  they 
fully  realized  what  kind  of  an  escort  had  accom- 
panied the  little  wagon  when  the  soldier  had 


A   RACE    FOR   LIFE 


95 


reported,    "They  are   coming,  and    have   ail   es- 
cort." 

Capt.  Conkey's  command  returned  about  mid- 
night. He  had  Been  but  one  Indian  during  the 
entire  ride,  and  he  was  on  the  south  side  of  the 
river,  in  the  sand-hills. 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  TWIN  MOUNDS. 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  INDIAN  WAR  OF  1866-'67. 

HE  highest  points 
of  the  divide  sep- 
arating the  beau- 
tiful valley  of  the 
Saline  from  the 
Elkhorn,  in  cen- 
tral Kansas,  are 
two  relatively  ele- 
vated peaks,  close 
together,  known 
all  over  the  re- 
gion as  the  Twin 
Mounds.  They 
can  be  seen  from 
anywhere  within 
a  radius  of  thirty 
miles,  cutting  the 
deep  blue  of  the 

sky  on  clear  days  as  sharply  as  a  summer  thunder- 
cloud. In  their  contour  they  are  so  exactly  simi- 
lar, even  to  two  white  patches  of  limestone  on 

M 


SUSIE   README. 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  TWIN  MOUNDS        97 

their  southwestern  slopes,  that  their  name  would 
immediately  suggest  itself  to  a  stranger,  for  never 
were  twins  born  so  perfect  in  resemblance  as  these 
dual  masses  of  disrupted  rock. 

Under  their  conical  shadow  runs  the  trail  of 
the  Mormon  hegira  to  far-off  Deseret,  when  that 
sect  was  driven  out  of  Illinois ;  and  also  that  of 
General  John  C.  Fremont,  on  his  memorable 
"Exploring  Expedition"  across  the  continent  in 
1843.  Until  very  recently,  when  it  was  ruthlessly 
cut  down,  there  stood  in  the  valley,  on  the  bank 
of  the  Elkhorn,  immediately  below  the  mounds, 
a  large  oak  tree,  at  the  foot  of  which  the  General 
caused  that  mutineer  to  be  shot,  the  circum- 
stances of  which  are  related  in  his  itinerary  of 
that  wonderful  march. 

But  that  was  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  be- 
fore the  occurrence  of  the  events  to  be  related  in 
this  story;  and  they  date  back  nearly  the  same 
length  of  time  from  the  present.  Both  trails 
may  still  be  seen  in  places  where  the  land  has 
not  yet  been  subordinated  to  the  plow;  almost 
obliterated  wagon -tracks  in  the  short  buffalo- 
grass  covering  that  portion  of  the  prairie  through 
which  the  expedition  passed,  which  each  recurring 
season  grow  dimmer,  and  in  a  few  more  years  will 
have  vanished  forever. 
—7 


y»  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

The  valleys  of  the  Elkhorn  and  the  Saline  were 
heavily  timbered — are  to-day,  relatively.  They 
were  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  Indians;  and  elk, 
buffalo,  bear,  and  an  occasional  panther  sought 
the  rocky  and  vine-involved  recesses  of  the  primi- 
tive forest. 

But  the  savage  and  the  beasts  of  the  plain  have 
passed  away.  Now  the  land  is  full  of  harvests 
and  green  meads.  Yet  the  Indian  summer  now 
as  then  wraps  the  hills  in  its  mellow  tints;  the 
grass  grows  brown  and  rusty  as  each  autumn  fills 
its  measure,  and  the  days,  as  in  the  long-ago,  are 
as  grand  as  the  golden  sunshine  of  that  incompa- 
rable season  of  the  Great  Plains  ever  lighted  up ; 
the  mirage,  as  of  old,  weaves  its  fantastic  forms 
out  of  the  charming  landscape,  and  under  certain 
atmospheric  conditions  a  man  on  top  of  one  of 
the  Twin  Mounds  will  appear,  as  does  the  specter 
of  the  Brocken,  like  a  huge  giant  in  mid-air. 

When  Fort  Harker,  on  the  Smoky  Hill,  about 
fifteen  miles  south  of  the  Twin  Mounds,  was  es- 
tablished as  a  military  post  by  Gen.  Hancock  in 
the  fall  of  1866,  the  whole  vast  area  of  central 
Kansas  was  the  hunting-ground  of  the  cruel  and 
bloodthirsty  Cheyennes,  Arapahoes,  and  Kiowas. 
Their  opposition  to  the  intrusion  of  the  whites 
manifested  itself  at  every  opportunity  where  it 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  TWIN  MOUNDS        99 

was  possible  to  murder  or  carry  into  captivity. 
The  empire  of  the  plow  had  just  then  dawned, 
and  the  march  of  the  homesteader  but  fairly  be- 
gun. The  satanic  genius  of  Indian  hatred  brooded 
over  the  beautiful  landscape,  and  the  harvest  of 
the  unlabored  fields  was  blood. 

It  is  true  a  few  hardy  trappers  had  for  years 
roamed  over  the  prairies  and  camped  temporarily 
on  the  banks  of  the  wooded  streams,  but  there  was 
no  attempt  at  permanent  settlement  except  in 
the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  several  forts;  but 
they  were  established  only  from  time  to  time  at 
remote  distances  from  each  other,  generally  on 
the  line  of  the  Oregon  and  Santa  Fe  trail,  under 
the  protection  of  which  it  was  alone  safe  to  re- 
main in  the  country. 

About  the  time  the  site  for  the  new  post  of 
Fort  Harker  had  been  determined  upon,  and 
troops  —  the  Fifteenth  Infantry  and  Gen.  Ouster's 
Seventh  Cavalry — were  camped  on  the  grassy  bot- 
toms of  the  river  and  creeks  in  the  vicinity,  wait- 
ing for  their  permanent  quarters  to  be  erected,  a 
bold  and  persistent  frontiersman  named  Paul 
Reaume,  who  had  been  a  pioneer  in  the  wilds  of 
Wisconsin  twenty  years  before,  emigrated  from 
that  State  to  Kansas. 

After  looking  around  for  some  time,  visiting  all 


100  TALES   OF   THE    TRAIL 

the  inviting  localities  of  the  new  commonwealth, 
in  decided  opposition  to  the  advice  of  the  military 
authorities  at  Fort  Harker  and  the  commanding 
general  of  the  department  he  took  up  a  "  claim  " 
and  established  a  ranch  at  a  magnificent  spring  a 
few  hundred  rods  north  of  the  base  of  the  Twin 
Mounds. 

Reaume  was  a  widower,  but  his  eldest  daughter, 
Susie  —  dark-haired,  rather  handsome,  and  withal 
a  modest,  gentle  girl  of  eighteen  —  kept  house  and 
acted  the  role  of  mother  to  her  four  young  sisters 
and  brothers,  who  loved  and  obeyed  her  with  all 
the  intensity  of  their  warm  natures,  (Reaume  was 
French  but  one  generation  removed,)  which  she 
reciprocated  in  an  equal  degree.  They  were  a 
charming  little  family,  of  more  means  and  greater 
refinement  than  are  usually  found  in  the  average 
pioneer  immigrant. 

The  fertile  valley  stretching  many  miles  north 
and  south  afforded  a  rich  pasturage,  and  the  rela- 
tively deep  woods  on  the  margin  of  the  Elkhorn  a 
splendid  shelter  in  winter  for  the  herd  of  cattle 
that  Reaume  had  driven  from  his  old  home.  So 
he  built  as  his  needs  required  a  comfortable  log 
house  and  spacious  corrals,  where  with  an  abun- 
dance of  game  all  around  him,  from  the  trim- 
feathered  quail  to  the  huge  shaggy-coated  buffalo, 
he  settled  down  to  a  life  of  rude  contentment. 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  TWIN  MOUNDS 


101 


Of  the  many  Government  scouts  at  Fort  Harker, 
among  whom  were  William  F.  Cody  ("Buffalo 
Bill"),  William  Hickok  ("Wild  Bill")  and 
others,  was  Jack 
Hart.  Hart  was 
a  young  light- 
haired  boy,  not 
more  than 
twenty-three 
years  old.  He 
was  fairly  well 
educated,  nei- 
ther slangy  nor 
dialectic  in 
expression  of 
thought ;  cour- 
ageous as  a  lion, 
and  endowed 
with  a  degree 
of  endurance 

under  hardships  incident  to  his  vocation  that  was 
marvelous  in  its  contemplation  by  a  novice.  Jack 
was  a  remarkably  fine  shot  with  either  rifle  or  re- 
volver. He  could  toss  up  an  empty  oyster  can  and 
put  every  ball  out  of  his  two  Colts  into  it  before 
it  fell  to  the  ground,  and  either  "  crease  "  or  cen- 
ter the  heart  of  an  antelope  at  five  hundred  yards, 
as  he  might  elect. 


SITTING  BULL,  CROW  EAGLE,  BUFFALO  BILL. 


102  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

He  was  as  keen  on  the  trail  as  any  Indian, 
whose  original  astuteness  and  strategy  he  had 
mastered,  and  was  the  superior  of  the  savage,  as 
is  any  white  man  when  once  thoroughly  familiar 
with  their  cunning.  Besides,  in  that  quick  per- 
ception and  determination  so  essential  to  success 
in  the  moment  of  danger,  when  dealing  with  the 
wily  nomad  of  the  Plains,  Hart  was  unequaled  by 
any  other  scout  I  ever  knew,  and  I  have  inti- 
mately known  all  who  have  figured  at  all  con- 
spicuously during  the  past  thirty-five  years. 

Jack  was  a  great  favorite  with  all  the  officers  at 
the  military  posts  in  the  whole  Department  of  the 
Missouri;  had  their  entire  confidence,  and  when 
any  duty  in  his  line  became  necessary  requiring 
exceptional  bravery,  judgment  and  promptness 
in  its  execution,  Hart  was  invariably  detailed,  if 
present,  to  perform  it. 

One  day  in  April,  1867,  as  he  was  returning 
from  the  Platte  river  to  Fort  Harker  with  a  com- 
pany of  the  Fifth  Calvary  he  was  guiding  to  the 
post,  they  halted  at  the  spring  where  Reaume  had 
established  his  ranch,  to  feed  the  horses,  rest  and 
water.  Then  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Jack 
saw  Susie  Reaume,  who  was  cheerfully  preparing 
an  excellent  dinner  in  her  father's  modest  cabin 
for  the  officers  of  the  command,  who  had  politely 
requested  of  her  something  to  eat. 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  TWIN  MOUNDS       108 

It  was  the  same  old  Btory  of  mutual  love,  the 
moment  their  eyes  met ;  and  ever  after  that  mem- 
orable noon  halt,  when  Hart  had  a  day  off  he 
would  mount  his  own  roan  broncho  Tatonka,  ride 
across  the  country  to  the  Twin  Mounds,  and  pour 
out  his  heart's  thoughts  to  the  gentle  and  con- 
fiding Susie,  who  before  a  month  had  elapsed 
promised  to  be  his  wife. 

"There's  no  chaplain  at  the  post  now,"  said 
he,  one  evening  after  they  were  engaged,  as  they 
were  sitting  on  the  porch  of  her  father's  cabin  in 
,  the  bright  moonlight,  discussing  plans  for  the 
future  and  building  those  airy  castles  in  space  as 
lovers  are  wont ;  ' '  but  I  heard  from  the  adjutant 
yesterday  that  one  had  been  ordered  to  Harker 
from  Fort  Leavenworth,  under  an  escort  of  a 
squadron  of  the  Fifth  Cavalry.  They  will  be  up 
in  a  couple  of  weeks,  and  when  he  arrives  we  will 
get  married  immediately.  Eh!  darling  ?"  plead- 
ingly continued  Jack. 

Susie  blushingly  assented  to  Hart's  importunity, 
and  then  he  told  her  that  he  had  saved  enough  to 
stock  a  ranch  and  build  a  house ;  that  he  proposed 
to  leave  the  Government  employ  as  soon  as  they 
were  married,  take  up  a  "  claim  "  on  the  Elkhorn 
near  her  father's,  so  that  he  would  not  be  sepa- 
rated from  her  at  all,  or  she  from  her  family.  Then 


104 


TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 


Jack,  after  cautioning  Reaume,  who  had  long  be- 
fore given  his  consent  to  the  proposed  match,  to 
keep  a  sharp  lookout  for  Indians,  started  about 
midnight  on  his  lonely  ride  back  to  Fort  Harker, 
where  he  was  obliged  to  be  early  the  next  morning. 

Jack  arrived  at  the 
post  long  before  day- 
light, and  went  to 
bed.  When  he  re- 
ported to  the  com- 
manding officer  the 
next  mommg  imme- 
diately after  guard- 
mount,  he  found 
himself  (much  to 
his  disgust,  now  that 
he  was  in  love)  or- 
dered to  guide  a 
scoutiug-party  com- 
posed of  four  companies  of  the  Seventh  Cavalry, 
commanded  by  Col.  Keogh,  to  the  region  of  Paw- 
nee Rock  and  the  Great  Bend  of  the  Arkansas, 
seventy  miles  to  the  southwest  of  Harker,  where 
the  Kiowas,  under  the  leadership  of  the  dreaded 
Chief  Sa-tan-ta,  had  been  for  the  past  fortnight 
successfully  raiding  the  overland  coaches  and 
the  freight  caravans  to  New  Mexico. 


SA-TAN-TA. 


THE    TRAGEDY    AT   TWIN    MOUNDS  105 

The  command  to  which  Hart  was  attached 
remained  away,  having  occasional  brushes  with 
the  Indians,  for  several  weeks.  During  its  absence 
the  allied  tribes  had  become  excessively  impudent 
and  threatening.  They  culminated  their  atroci- 
ties in  a  most  fiendish  and  cruel  massacre  of  the 
settlers  on  Spillman  creek,  upon  the  receipt  of  the 
news  of  which  the  Government  determined  to  in- 
augurate an  extended  campaign  against  them,  in 
which  Gen.  Sheridan  was  to  take  the  field  in  per- 
son, with  such  famous  Indian-fighters  for  his  lieu- 
tenants as  Gens.  Sully,  Ouster,  Carr,  and  others. 
Consequently  all  the  scouting-parties  were  called  in 
to  their  respective  stations  by  courier,  to  prepare 
for  the  impending  great  conflict. 

Of  course,  the  moment  Hart  returned  to  Fort 
Harker  he  made  preparations  to  leave  for  the 
ranch  at  Twin  Mounds  and  the  girl  who  had  so 
photographed  herself  on  the  tablets  of  his  mem- 
ory. It  was  early  the  next  morning  after  his 
arrival  at  the  post ;  he  had  shaved,  put  on  a  new 
suit  purchased  from  the  sutler,  and  otherwise 
made  himself  presentable  after  his  long  scout. 
But  he  had  hardly  cinched  the  saddle  on  Tatonka 
before  an  orderly  came  to  the  corral  and  informed 
him  that  the  commanding  officer  desired  his  pres- 
ence at  once.  So  Jack,  with  terribly  depressed 


106  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

feelings  and  mentally  cursing  his  luck,  mounted 
his  horse  and  rode  slowly  up  to  headquarters, 
where  he  found  the  General  standing  on  the  porch 
waiting  to  receive  him. 

"  Jack,"  said  he,  as  the  scout  dismounted,  "I'm 
awfully  sorry  to  be  compelled  to  call  upon  you 
to  make  another  trip  right  away,  when  you  have 
just  returned  from  such  a  long  one,  but  the  fact 
is  there  's  not  another  scout  at  the  post ;  they  are 
all  away.  I  want  you  to  start  immediately  for 
the  Saline.  Part  of  the  Fifth  Cavalry  are  en 
route  from  Fort  Saunders  here,  and  will  probably 
reach  the  ford  northwest  of  Fort  Hays  sometime 
to-day.  It  is  now  only  six  o'clock,"  looking  at 
his  watch;  "you  can  reach  there  as  soon  as  they 
do — before,  if  you  start  now.  So  go  at  once  and 
guide  them  in.  They  don't  know  anything  about 
that  country  on  the  river.  You  remember  how 
terribly  broken  it  is  out  there.  Here  are  some 
dispatches  you  are  to  give  to  whomever  you  find 
in  command;"  and  he  handed  the  scout  a  small 
package  of  papers. 

"All  right,  sir,"  replied  Hart,  as  he  put  the 
bundle  in  the  breast-pocket  of  his  flannel  shirt; 
"I  'm  off  now,  as  soon  as  I  go  to  my  quarters  for 
my  saddlebags  and  carbine." 

With  a  sad  heart  as  he  cast  his  eyes  on  the  blue 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  TWIN  MOUNDS       107 

cones  of  the  Twin  Mounds,  looming  up  so  suggest- 
ively of  the  ranch  at  their  base,  Jack  left  the 
post  in  a  few  minutes  after  his  interview  with 
Gen.  Sully,  fully  mindful  of  the  responsible  duty 
intrusted  to  him.  Hart  made  excellent  time.  He 
was  anxious  to  get  back  as  soon  as  possible.  By 
two  o'clock  he  had  crossed  the  Saline,  and  when 
about  three  miles  the  other  side  of  where  the 
handsome  little  village  of  Sylvan  to-day  nestles 
BO  picturesquely  in  the  wealth  of  woods  surround- 
ing, he  met  the  troops,  to  whose  commander  he 
reported,  and  delivered  his  dispatches.  He  turned 
with  them  to  the  river,  where,  as  it  was  now  past 
three,  the  command  went  into  camp  for  the  night. 
After  grazing  Tatonka  for  half  an  hour,  feeding 
him  some  corn,  and  eating  his  own  dinner,  the 
thought  suddenly  struck  Jack  to  ask  permission 
to  go  over  to  the  ranch  at  the  foot  of  the  Twin 
Mounds,  whose  dual  peaks  were  plainly  visible 
only  fifteen  miles  away  to  the  southeast  as  the 
crow  flies.  The  colonel  cordially  granted  Jack's 
request.  He  promised  to  join  the  column  on  the 
trail  early  in  the  morning  before  it  had  marched 
any  great  distance;  then,  at  the  commanding 
officer's  suggestion,  Jack  drew  in  the  sand  with 
his  finger  a  rough  map  of  the  route  to  Fort 
Harker,  supplementing  it  by  pointing  out  certain 


108  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

divides  and  ledges  of  rock  that  could  plainly  be 
seen  on  the  trail  from  where  the  colonel  and  the 
scout  stood. 

When  Jack  had  finished  he  left  the  camp  for 
the  spot  where  he  had  given  his  heart  more  than 
two  months  before,  his  soul  filled  with  rapture  at 
the  prospect  of  soon  meeting  again  the  gentle  girl 
he  loved. 

His  horse  was  a  medium-sized  broncho,  full  of 
power  and  endurance,  which  he  knew  could  easily 
make  Reaume's  ranch  in  three  hours.  That 
would  bring  him  there  about  seven  o'clock,  in 
time  for  supper,  and  more  than  an  hour  and  a 
half  before  dark.  So  he  struck  a  bee-line  for  the 
Mounds,  his  feelings  better  imagined  than  de- 
scribed; an  ecstasy  indefinable  except  to  those 
whose  experience  has  been  similar  to  that  of  the 
overhappy  scout. 

The  sun  was  just  sinking  below  the  horizon 
when  Jack 'arrived  at  the  Elkhorn,  in  the  imme- 
diate vicinity  of  the  ranch.  A  flood  of  golden 
light  poured  into  the  beautiful  little  valley  as  he 
crossed  the  ford  and  entered  the  circular  grove, 
in  the  middle  of  which  Reaume  had  built  his  log 
cabin  and  corrals.  As  he  rode  toward  the  place 
where  the  cluster  of  rude  huts  should  be,  his  eyes, 
which  were  ordinarily  as  keen  and  as  bright  as  an 


THE    TRAGEDY   AT    TWIN   MOUNDS  109 

eagle's,  suddenly  filled,  for  he  looked  upon  a  scene 
that  caused  his  bronzed  cheeks  to  blanch  and  an 
exclamation  of  horror  to  escape  his  lips.  The 
cabin  was  roofless,  and  the  green  timber  compos- 
ing its  sides  and  ends  was  still  slowly  burning. 

"CheyennesI  "  he  muttered  with  set  teeth,  as 
he  unslung  his  carbine,  spurred  his  horse  forward, 
while  a  prayer  for  the  safety  of  the  girl  he  loved 
was  formulated  in  his  brain.  When  he  reached 
the  opening  where  the  once  happy  home  was  so 
picturesquely  located  he  drew  up  on  the  reins,  and 
as  Tatonka  stopped  a  deep  groan  escaped  Jack. 
Lying  under  the  mighty  trees,  close  to  the  ruins 
of  the  cabin,  were  the  scalped  and  mutilated  re- 
mains of  Reaume  and  his  four  youngest  children. 

But  where  was  Susie,  the  woman  he  loved  ? 
Dazed  and  stupefied  for  a  moment,  Jack  began 
to  search  for  her  body.  She  was  not  with  the  rest 
of  the  murdered  family.  "Oh,  my  God  I"  he 
cried  in  his  agony,  "  has  she  been  saved,  for  a  fate 
worse  than  death  1  Carried  off  a  miserable  captive 
among  the  soulless  savages  ?  Great  God,  no  1  I 
cannot  think  of  it.  Sooner  would  I  see  her  here 
dead  with  the  others  1  " 

Although  almost  overcome  with  grief,  and  furi- 
ous with  passion  as  these  thoughts,  so  terrible 
in  their  contemplation,  crowded  thick  upon  his 


110  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

brain,  he  was  determined  not  to  lose  his  self-con- 
trol. Pausing  for  a  moment,  cautiously  looking 
around  to  assure  himself  that  none  of  the  paint- 
bedaubed  fiends  were  lurking  in  the  timber,  he 
dismounted,  tied  hia  horse  to  aa  oak  sapling, 
walked  to  where  his  dead  friends  lay,  and  silently 
contemplated  the  horrid  butchery.  He  dared  not 
think  of  the  probable  fate  of  the  faithful  young 
girl  who  had  promised  to  be  his  wife,  but  he  ut- 
tered bitter  curses  against  the  demons  who  had  so 
wantonly,  and  without  the  slightest  provocation, 
annihilated  the  peaceful  little  family.  He  swore 
to  himself  that  he  would  have  ten  lives  for  one,  in 
his  determined  revenge.  He  turned  away,  sick  at 
heart,  from  these  victims  of  Indian  hatred,  and 
walked  slowly  toward  the  spring  to  quench  his 
feverish  thirst  and  to  collect  his  dazed  ideas. 

It  was  six  or  seven  rods  from  where  the  cabin 
had  stood  to  the  wall  of  rock  in  the  hillside  out  of 
which  the  water  gushed,  and  it  was  completely 
hidden  by  a  dense  growth  of  cotton  woods,  willows 
and  elders,  covering  more  than  an  acre.  As  he 
approached  the  edge  of  this  tangled  thicket,  a  low 
moan  reached  his  ear ;  whether  animal  or  human, 
so  faint  was  it,  he  could  not  distinguish. 

Stopping  for  an  instant,  every  sense  on  the 
alert,  he  cocked  his  carbine,  and  listened  atten- 


THE    TRAGEDY   AT    TWIN    MOUNDS  111 

tively.  The  strange  sound  was  repeated.  He 
moved  cautiously  on  the  narrow  trail.  Then  sud- 
denly as  he  arrived  at  the  spring,  which  made 
quite  a  pool  as  it  fell  from  a  shelf  of  sandstone, 
with  a  cry  of  horror  from  his  lips  he  saw  prone 
on  the  ground,  her  pale  mouth  just  touching  the 
water's  edge  as  it  flowed  in  a  diminutive  rivulet, 
the  apparently  lifeless  body  of  Susie  Reaume. 

"  Susie,  my  darling !  "  cried  he,  as  he  knelt  rev- 
erently by  her  side  and  kissed  her  forehead,  for  he 
believed  her  certainly  dead.  But  the  girl's  eyes 
opened  as  she  felt  the  warm  impress  of  his  lips, 
and  she  looked  up  into  his  anxious  face  with  an 
unmistakable  glance  of  recognition,  vainly  essay- 
ing to  speak. 

"Oh,  Susie,  are  you  seriously  hurt?  Tell  me, 
if  you  can,"  he  lovingly  pleaded,  as  he  then  for 
the  first  time  noticed,  with  fear  depicted  on  his 
countenance,  a  pool  of  dried  blood  on  the  sod  be- 
neath her. 

After  an  evident  struggle  she  laboredly  gasped : 
"Yes — Jack — here,"  touching  her  right  side 
with  her  left  hand,  causing  her  much  effort-  to 
accomplish  it. 

Jack  at  once  commenced  to  unfasten  her  dress, 
but  she  instinctively  attempted  to  raise  her  arms 
to  prevent  him,  while  a  delicate  blush  spread  over 
her  pale  face. 


112  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

"  Susie,  dear,"  said  Jack,  as  he  understood  what 
her  motion  was  intended  to  convey  to  him,  "there 
are  no  woman's  hands  here  to  do  what  under  the 
circumstances  must  be  done ;  so,  darling,  let  there 
be  no  false  modesty.  I  want  to  save  you,  and  you 
want  to  live." 

Upon  this  appeal  she  made  no  more  resistance, 
but  her  eyes  closed,  and  the  glow  of  her  maiden 
delicacy  deepened,  while  Jack,  with  the  most 
sacred  feelings,  cut  open  her  bodice  with  his 
sheath-knife  and  exposed  her  virgin  bosom  to  the 
evening  breeze.  On  the  right  side,  immediately 
on  a  line  with  her  shoulder,  he  discovered  an  ugly 
lance-wound,  which  had  bled  so  profusely  that 
she  had  fainted,  and  was  almost  exhausted  when 
Jack  found  her.  The  wound  had  evidently  stopped 
flowing  some  time  since,  and  fortunately  the  blade 
had  not  penetrated  her  lungs ;  at  least  so  thought 
Jack  in  his  careful  and  gentle  examination,  deter- 
mining the  matter  from  the  fact  that  there  was 
no  hemorrhage  from  her  mouth,  and  he  silently 
thanked  God. 

It  was  now  long  after  sundown.  In  the  linger- 
ing twilight  he  carefully  washed  the  wound  with 
water,  using  a  portion  of  her  skirt  he  had  cut  off 
for  the  purpose.  Completing  this  office,  and 
binding  on  a  wet  compress,  Jack  then  moved  her 


THE    TRAGEDY   AT   TWIN    MOUNDS  118 

tenderly  to  a  mat  of  Boft  buffalo-grass  near  by, 
made  a  pillow  of  hia  saddle,  and  a  covering  for 
her  out  of  hia  saddle  blanket,  then  busied  him- 
self in  making  her  a  cup  of  coffee,  a  supply 
of  which  and  a  small  pot  he  always  carried  with 
him. 

The  coffee  and  some  hardtack  he  had,  revived 
the  wounded  girl  very  materially,  reduced  the  in- 
cipient fever  which  had  set  in,  and  permitted  her 
to  fall  into  a  gentle  slumber;  while  Jack,  under 
the  brilliant  constellations  of  the  incomparable 
June  night,  nursed  her  through  ita  silent  watches. 
The  poor  fellow  leaned  patiently  over  her  with 
looks  of  the  most  tender  solicitude,  bathing  her 
temples  now  and  then  with  water  from  the  spring 
when  she  became  the  least  restless,  and  occasion- 
ally running  hia  fingers  through  her  dark  ringlets 
with  the  fondness  of  a  young  but  constantly  grow- 
ing affection  —  for  it  was  hia  first  love,  and  he 
had  given  his  soul  up  to  it  with  all  the  strength 
and  weakness  of  his  passion. 

The  sun,  though  not  yet  above  the  horizon  of 
the  valley,  was  just  gilding  the  crests  of  the  Twin 
Mounds  next  morning  when  Susie  awoke  with  a 
glance  of  approving  affection  on  Jack.  Although 
she  did  not  speak,  there  is  a  language  of  looks 
which  is  sufficient  for  the  purposes  of  love.  As 
-8 


114  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

he  quietly  kissed  her  he  understood  it  perfectly, 
and  it  filled  his  soul  with  joy. 

Jack  then,  after  hia  ablutions  at  the  spring, 
made  a  little  fire,  put  on  his  coffee-pot,  which 
soon  boiled,  and  while  it  was  settling  he  tenderly 
washed  the  wounded  girl's  face  and  placed  a  fresh 
compress  on  the  cruel  hole  in  her  side. 

After  Susie  had  partaken  of  her  frugal  break- 
fast, she  was  able  to  converse  a  few  minutes.  She 
expressed  herself  in  words  that  were  musio  in 
Jack's  ears,  of  the  deepest  gratitude  and  love  for 
the  care  he  had  bestowed  upon  her,  assuring  him 
that  but  for  his  opportune  coming  and  devotion, 
she  would  hours  since  have  been  dead. 

"Do  you  think,  Susie,  you  could  ride  on  my 
horse?"  pleadingly  inquired  Jack.  "We  could 
reach  Fort  Harker  early  in  the  afternoon,  if  you 
have  strength  enough  to  sit  in  the  saddle,  and  can 
bear  the  fatigue.  I  am  certain  you  need  a  doc- 
tor's care  and  a  woman's  nursing.  Were  it  pos- 
sible to  leave  you  here,  I  would  make  the  post  in 
three  hours,  and  bring  back  an  ambulance  for 
you.  But  that  would  require  every  minute  from 
now  until  four  o'clock;  and  to  compel  you  to 
remain  here  and  alone  until  I  return,  with  the 
Indians  perhaps  hovering  around,  cannot  be 
thought  of." 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  TWIN  MOUNDS       115 

Susie  was  now  sitting  up,  leaning  against  the 
trunk  of  a  big  elm  to  which  Jack  had  carried  her, 
in  order  that  she  might  be  more  comfortable; 
and  in  answer  she  said : 

"I  think  I  am  strong  enough,  Jack.  I  must 
be.  That  is  the  only  thing  that  can  be  done.  I 
have  n't  much  fever  now,  and  my  wound  has  n't 
bled  any  since  yesterday.  Let 's  try,  at  least. 
I've  lots  of  courage  —  you  know  that — and  I 
believe  that  I  can  make  the  trip." 

Jack  then  watered  Tatonka,  saddled  him,  and 
after  tying  him  to  a  tree,  told  Susie  he  would  go 
up  on  the  hill  and  make  a  reconnoissance  before 
they  started ;  that  he  would  be  gone  only  about 
ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  and  not  to  worry  during 
his  absence. 

The  sun  was  fairly  above  the  horizon  when  Jack, 
with  only  his  sheath-knife,  started  for  the  bluffs 
above  the  creek  bottom,  where  he  could  see  over 
the  country  for  miles.  He  wanted  to  satisfy  him- 
self whether  there  were  any  Indians  skulking  in 
the  vicinity,  as  he  dared  not  take  such  desperate 
chances,  handicapped  with  the  helpless  girl,  as  he 
would  if  he  were  going  to  make  the  trip  to  Fort 
Harker  alone. 

He  had  not  forgotten  his  promise  of  the  after- 
noon before,  to  join  the  cavalry  column  and  guide 


116  TALES   OF   THE   TRAIL 

it  to  the  post ;  consequently  he  was  somewhat  dis- 
turbed at  first.  But  when  he  left  the  colonel  he 
of  course  never  imagined  that  such  a  fate  had  be- 
fallen Reaume's  ranch  and  the  girl  Jack  loved. 
So  the  scout  did  not,  when  he  considered  the  mat- 
ter a  moment,  weigh  his  duty  in  the  scales  of  his 
affection.  He  would  have  sacrificed  place,  friends 
and  everything  to  save  his  affianced.  What  maij 
would  blame  him  ? 

He  had  just  reached  the  second  bottom  above 
the  creek  and  was  emerging  from  the  heavy  growth 
of  timber  out  on  the  prairie  at  the  foot  of  the 
most  southerly  of  the  Twin  Mounds,  when  he  was 
confronted  by  a  monstrous  she -panther,  with 
three  young  ones  not  more  than  six  weeks  old. 
Ordinarily,  that  animal  of  the  genus  felis  will  not 
attack  man, — preferring,  rather,  to  shrink  from 
his  presence,  unless  provoked  by  wounds.  But  in 
this  instance  both  Hart  and  the  panther  were  face 
to  face  on  the  edge  of  the  woods  before  they  were 
aware  of  the  fact.  Which  was  the  more  surprised, 
the  man  or  the  beast,  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  determine. 

If  there  had  been  no  little  ones  with  her,  in  all 
probability  the  panther  would  have  incontinently 
bounded  into  the  timber  at  the  first  glance  of 
Jack's  eyes;  but  the  presence  of  the  kittens 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  TWIN  MOUNDS       117 

aroused  the  maternal  instinct  for  their  safety. 
So,  with  a  low  growl  and  a  characteristic  "spit" 
at  him,  she  flew  at  the  scout's  breast,  fastening 
her  great  claws  into  his  shoulders  before  he  could 
draw  his  knife,  and  they  both  fell  by  the  sheer 
impetus  of  the  cat's  onset. 

Jack,  unfortunately  for  himself  at  this  junc- 
ture, had  left  his  carbine  and  revolvers  with 
Susie.  She  could  use  them  very  effectually  in 
case  of  emergency,  but  she  was  too  far  away  to 
be  able  to  hear  him  if  he  should  call,  and  too 
weak  to  come  if  she  could  hear  him.  Now,  his 
only  dependence  for  defense  from  the  murderous 
attack  of  the  ferocious  beast  was  his  knife,  but 
he  was  an  expert  in  its  use. 

They  struggled  fearfully,  the  infuriated  animal 
endeavoring  to  insert  its  teeth  in  the  scout's 
throat,  which  luckily  he  succeeded  in  preventing 
by  the  dexterous  use  of  his  knife.  But  in  the 
awfully  unequal  battle  he  was  terribly  cut  by  the 
sharp,  active  claws  of  the  enraged  beast,  and 
was  bleeding  profusely  from  more  than  a  dozen 
wounds  already  inflicted  on  his  shoulders,  legs 
and  body.  He  had,  fortunately,  been  able  to 
keep  the  cat's  great  paws  off  his  face. 

At  last,  by  one  desperate  effort  Jack  succeeded 
in  giving  a  home  thrust  in  the  region  of  the  crea- 


118  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

tore's  heart,  which  ended  the  struggle;  luckily 
for  him,  too,  for  at  that  moment  he  swooned  from 
loss  of  blood.  The  panther  loosened  her  hold  — 
she  was  dead. 

This  final  effort  of  the  scout  occurred  on  the 
extreme  edge  of  a  rocky  shelf,  whither  both  man 
and  beast  had  been  forced  during  their  desperate 
fight.  Below  this  shelf,  at  a  distance  of  only  a 
few  feet,  fortunately,  the  level  prairie  hugged 
the  timber,  the  latter  throwing  a  deep  shade 
over  the  spot.  Into  this  grassy  little  place  both 
Hart  and  the  panther  fell — he  insensible  from 
loss  of  blood,  with  the  lifeless  beast  alongside 
him. 

In  the  cavalry  camp  on  the  Saline  the  troopers 
were  busily  grooming  their  horses  at  the  picket- 
line.  The  captains  of  companies  near  by  were 
superintending  this  important  duty,  while  the 
colonel,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  officers,  nearly 
all  of  whom  were  smoking  their  matutinal  pipes, 
stood  in  front  of  headquarters  tent,  drinking  in 
the  charming  landscape  and  delicious  freshness 
of  the  early  summer  morning.  Suddenly,  as  his 
eyes  happened  to  rest  upon  the  double  cones  of 
the  Twin  Mounds  that  loomed  up  blue  and  clearly 
defined  in  the  coming  light  from  the  east,  he 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  TWIN  MOUNDS 


119 


pointed  in  their  direction  with  a  field -glass  he 
had  in  his  hand,  and  exclaimed : 

"  Look,  gentlemen,  look !  A  mirage  1  a  mirage  1 " 
Every  one  turned ;  and  presently,  while  all  were 
gazing  with  enchantment  on  the  strange  phenom- 
enon, far  above  the  peaks,  in  the  sky,  but  inverted, 
two  moving  figures  appeared,  surrounded  by  that 
waving  purple  mist  characteristic  of  the  mirage 


THE    MIRAGE. 

on  the  Great  Plains.  One  of  the  celestial  appari- 
tions was  in  the  similitude  of  a  man,  the  other  of 
a  beast.  Both  were  gigantic  and  exaggerated  in 
outline ;  both  were  grappling  in  a  deadly  struggle  I 
Every  soldier  stopped  his  work  to  watch  the 
curious  picture  suspended  in  the  heavens;  some 
regarded  it  with  a  superstitious  awe,  thoroughly 
frightened  at  the  manifestation,  which  they  never 
dreamed  of  as  within  the  range  of  possibilities. 


120  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

The  colonel  recognized  the  huge  figure  of  the 
man  in  the  clouds,  disproportioned  as  he  was,  to 
be  the  scout  who  had  left  him  the  afternoon  be- 
fore, but  what  the  beast  was  none  of  the  men 
could  make  out. 

' '  Great  Caesar ! ' '  cried  the  colonel ;  * '  what  a 
place  for  a  battle,  away  up  there  in  the  clouds! 
It  reminds  me  of  Lookout  Mountain,  when  I  was 
with  Hooker." 

Every  one  intently  watched  the  strange  combat, 
filled  with  excitement  at  the  novelty  of  the  thing, 
until  presently  the  figures  appeared  to  fall  over 
an  immense  precipice  and  vanish,  although  they 
seemed  to  disappear  with  an  upward  movement. 
Then  there  was  nothing  left  but  the  inverted 
mounds,  the  woods  and  the  prairie  of  the  won- 
derful mirage ;  it,  too,  was  all  dispelled  in  a  few 
moments  more. 

The  colonel  turned  to  his  adjutant  and  ordered 
"boots  and  saddles "  sounded  at  once. 

"For  we  must  be  off,"  said  he,  addressing  the 
officers  around  him  generally.  "  Life  may  depend 
upon  our  promptness  in  reaching  the  scene  of  that 
strange  conflict." 

In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  column 
had  moved  out,  headed  in  a  "bee-line"  for  the 
Twin  Mounds,  every  man  in  the  whole  command 


THE   TRAGEDY  AT   TWIN   MOUNDS  121 

as  anxious  as  his  comrade  to  reach  the  place,  for 
all  were  excited  over  what  they  had  witnessed. 

It  required  four  hours  of  brisk  marching  before 
they  arrived  on  the  plateau  at  the  base  of  the 
Mounds,  and  by  that  time  it  was  past  eleven 
o'clock,  and  intensely  hot.  The  command  halted 
there,  while  the  colonel,  the  adjutant,  the  sur- 
geon, several  other  officers  and  a  detail  of  five 
enlisted  men  instituted  a  search  for  the  missing 
scout. 

In  a  little  while  they  found  the  bodies  of  Hart 
and  the  panther  close  together,  lying  in  the  shade 
of  the  huge  oaks,  where  they  had  fallen  in  their 
last  struggle,  and  when  they  had  disappeared  to 
those  who  had  watched  the  combat  from  their 
camp  on  the  Saline. 

Upon  examination,  the  surgeon  discovered  that 
the  scout  was  alive,  but  terribly  lacerated  by  the 
sharp  claws  and  teeth  of  the  panther,  as  well  as 
badly  bruised  in  consequence  of  his  fall  from  the 
ledge  of  rocks,  though  no  bones  were  broken,  nor 
were  any  of  his  wounds  necessarily  serious.  He 
had  merely  become  insensible  from  loss  of  blood 
and  exhaustion  incident  to  the  awful  struggle. 
The  doctor  placed  a  flask  of  brandy  to  the  uncon- 
scious man's  mouth,  which  he  pried  open  with 
Jack's  own  knife,  still  clutched  in  his  right  hand 


122  TALfc'8   OF   THE    TRAIL 

when  discovered;  and  in  a  few  moments,  as  the 
stimulating  liquor  reached  his  stomach,  he  slowly 
opened  his  eyes,  looked  around  in  a  bewildered 
manner  at  first,  then  apparently  taking  in  the 
situation  of  affairs  at  a  glance,  partially  raised 
himself,  and  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  pointing  in 
the  direction  where  he  had  left  her,  said: 

"  Susie  Reaume!  Near  the  spring!  Quick,  for 
God's  sake!" 

"  Who  ?  "  replied  the  astonished  doctor;  "  Su- 
sie, a  woman,  here  too?" 

Jack  had  by  this  time  gotten  over  his  dizziness 
somewhat,  and  was  able  feebly  though  intelli- 
gently to  convey  the  story  of  the  awful  massacre 
at  the  ranch,  his  relations  to  the  wounded  girl, 
and  the  state  of  affairs  when  attacked  by  the 
panther.  Then  looking  at  the  sun,  and  realizing 
that  hours  must  have  elapsed  since  he  had  left 
Susie,  he  urged  the  doctor  to  go  at  once,  upon 
which  he  attempted  to  get  on  his  feet  to  guide 
him  to  the  spot,  but  he  was  too  weak  yet,  and 
would  have  fallen  if  one  of  the  men  had  not 
caught  him. 

"No I  no!"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  when  he  di- 
vined Jack's  intention;  "don't  try  to  walk  yet. 
I  '11  leave  one  of  the  troopers  to  look  after  you 
and  I  '11  go  and  attend  to  the  young  girl  immedi- 


THE    TRAGEDY   AT   TWIN    MOUNDS  128 

ately.  You  '11  be  all  right  in  half  an  hour ;  then 
you  can  follow." 

So,  with  directions  from  Jack,  the  doctor,  the 
colonel  and  two  soldiers  started  for  the  spring, 
which  they  found  without  any  difficulty,  the  trail 
to  that  point  having  been  explained  in  such  a 
clear  manner  by  the  anxious  scout. 

Entering  the  maze  of  willows  by  a  well-beaten 
trail  that  led  from  the  kitchen  door  of  the  de- 
stroyed cabin,  they  found  Susie  in  nearly  the 
same  position  in  which  Jack  had  left  her  early  in 
the  morning,  sitting  on  the  grass  against  the  big 
elm,  weak  and  feverish.  She  involuntarily  gave 
a  little  cry  of  surprise  when  she  saw  the  officers 
approaching,  and  with  a  slight  blush  mantling 
her  cheeks,  laid  the  rifle  she  had  raised  from  the 
ground  at  her  side  when  she  first  heard  footsteps, 
back  in  its  place,  and  bowed  her  head  gracefully 
in  response  to  the  colonel's  courteous  salutation. 
Both  he  and  the  doctor  were  surprised  to  find  so 
much  refinement  and  culture  as  Susie  evinced,  in 
such  an  unlooked-for  place. 

"Miss  Susie,"  said  the  colonel,  as  he  irresisti- 
bly lifted  his  hat  to  the  charming  picture  of  rus- 
ticity, "I  have  brought  our  surgeon,  at  Jack's 
request,  who  will  see  what  he  can  do  for  you,  and 
then  we  '11  find  means  to  transport  you  comfort- 


124  TALES    OF   THE   TRAIL 

ably  to  Fort  Harker,  where  you  can  be  properly 
cared  for.  The  doctor  will  tell  you  all  about 
Jack's  mishap  —  there,  don't  be  alarmed,"  as 
Susie  made  a  convulsive  start;  "he's  all  right, 
and  will  be  here  presently."  Then  bowing  again, 
the  colonel  and  his  two  men  retired  some  dis- 
tance, while  the  doctor,  as  modestly  as  possible, 
examined  the  gentle  girl's  wounds,  and  told  her 
the  story  of  Jack's  strange  adventure. 

Susie  Reauine  was  a  girl  of  the  strongest  affec- 
tions, but  not  in  the  least  degree  demonstrative. 
Her  grief  at  the  horrible  fate  of  her  father,  broth- 
ers and  sisters  was  as  deep  as  the  circumstances 
were  appalling,  her  love  for  the  young  scout  as 
pure  as  it  would  be  enduring ;  but  on  both  sub- 
jects of  the  sorrow  which  had  come  to  her  in  a 
single  day  she  was  reticent,  or  communicated  so 
little  that  the  first  impressions  of  the  colonel  and 
the  doctor  were  that  she  was  as  emotionless  as  a 
marble  statue.  There  was  never  a  greater  error 
of  judgment :  concealment  of  her  anguish  was  a 
prominent  characteristic  of  her  nature,  while  she 
suffered  unutterable  mental  torture. 

By  the  time  the  doctor  had  finished  dressing 
Susie's  wounds  the  command  was  well  established 
in  camp  on  the  stream,  and  dinner  in  progress. 
Jack  had  returned  to  the  spring  too,  holding  a 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  TWIN  MOUNDS       125 

conference  with  the  colonel  as  soon  as  he  arrived 
there,  explaining  that  he  was  not  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away  from  a  good  trail  to  Fort  Harker,  that 
ran  a  little  distance  west  of  the  Elkhorn,  where 
they  now  were. 

Jack  was  thinking  and  congratulating  himself 
upon  the  curious  chain  of  circumstances  which 
had  thwarted  all  his  plans,  provided  better  for 
the  wounded  Susie,  and  at  the  same  time  saved 
his  honor,  if  indeed  it  were  at  all  involved,  in 
breaking  his  word  to  the  colonel. 

Both  of  the  doctor's  patients  in  a  short  time 
received  some  excellent  nourishment,  prepared  by 
the  hospital  steward  out  of  the  medical  stores,  un- 
der the  surgeon's  direction,  reviving  the  wounded 
girl  materially  and  putting  Jack  fairly  ' '  on  his 
feet "  again,  for  he  was  "  as  tough  as  a  knot." 

About  half -past  two  the  column  was  ready  to 
move  out.  Susie  was  made  comfortable  on  a  lit- 
ter, fashioned  after  the  Indian  method  of  trans- 
porting their  wounded,  constructed  of  saplings 
and  blankets,  which  was  carefully  slung  between 
two  pack-mules  of  the  supply  train,  respectively 
led  by  two  troopers  detailed  for  that  duty.  This 
novel  equipage  the  colonel  ordered  to  march  in 
advance  of  the  column,  so  that  the  dust  raised  by 
the  company's  horses  should  not  annoy  Susie; 


126  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

while  Jack,  who  was  able  to  mount  Tatonka, 
though  he  was  terribly  sore  and  stiff,  rode  along- 
side of  her  and  piloted  the  command  on  the  trail. 
Before  they  left  the  ruined  ranch,  however,  the 
colonel  caused  the  bodies  of  the  unfortunate 
Reaumes  to  be  temporarily  interred  and  large 
Btones  put  over  their  graves,  to  prevent  the  wolves 
from  digging  up  and  eating  the  flesh  off  their 
bones,  as  it  was  Hart's  intention  to  have  them 
taken  to  the  post  and  decently  buried  in  the  lit- 
tle cemetery  there. 

After  an  eventful  march  the  command  arrived 
at  Fort  Harker  just  as  the  sun  was  setting,  where 
Susie  was  kindly  cared  for,  and  Jack  went  to  his 
own  quarters,  to  be  patched  up  and  plastered  by 
the  post  surgeon. 

Hart  was  out  and  ready  for  duty  inside  of  a 
week ;  but  Susie  did  not  gain  rapidly.  She  seemed 
to  be  slowly  wasting  away  with  a  fever,  though 
the  wound  in  her  side  had  closed,  and  there  was 
no  longer  danger  from  that  source.  It  was  tlie 
terrible  agony  of  her  soul;  she  did  not  complain, 
and  the  doctor  was  puzzled.  The  awful  mental 
strain  incident  to  what  she  had  passed  through, 
coupled  with  the  morbid  fear  that  the  marriage 
with  the  man  she  loved  could  not  be  consum- 
mated, was  doing  its  work.  Only  time,  the  great 


THE  TRAGEDY  AT  TWIN  MOUNDS       127 

healer  of  sorrows,  could  bring  relief,  and  both  she 
and  Jack  were  impatient. 

The  weeks  dragged  their  weary  length  along, 
and  the  golden  October  days  came  before  she  was 
convalescent;  but  with  that  subdivision  of  the 
year  came  also  the  inauguration  of  that  celebrated 
winter  campaign  against  the  allied  tribes,  for 
which  Gen.  Sheridan  had  been  making  vigorous 
preparations  all  summer.  Of  course  there  could 
be  no  marriage  now  until  the  war  was  over,  and  it 
lasted  (officially)  for  one  hundred  and  sixty-three 
days,  counting  from  the  21st  of  October,  but  vir- 
tually ending  with  Gen.  Ouster's  annihilation  of 
Black  Kettle  and  his  band  of  warriors  in  the 
battle  of  the  Washita,  in  November. 

At  last,  in  May,  1869,  that  month  of  floral 
beauty  on  the  Central  Plains,  on  a  delicious  Sab- 
bath morning,  Jack  and  Susie  were  married  by 
the  post  chaplain  in  the  large  unoccupied  ward  of 
the  hospital  at  Fort  Harker,  which  had  been  gar- 
landed with  wild  flowers,  roses  predominating,  and 
great  bunches  of  the  creamy-petaled  yucca,  for  the 
occasion. 

Gens.  Sheridan,  Ouster,  Sully,  and  all  the  of- 
ficers, with  their  wives,  who  were  part  of  the  gar- 
rison stationed  there,  graced  the  ceremony  with 
their  presence.  Buffalo  Bill,  "Wild  Bill,  and  all 


128  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

the  other  famous  scouts  on  duty  at  Fort  Harker, 
were  also  present ;  and  many  substantial  presents 
were  received  from  all  the  distinguished  guests  by 
the  favored  couple. 

Nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  has  elapsed  since 
then.  All  the  famous  generals  mentioned  are 
dead.  Hart  is  now  a  prosperous  ranchman,  with 
large  herds  of  mild-eyed  Jerseys  and  broad-backed 
Shorthorns  peacefully  grazing  in  his  extensive  pas- 
tures. On  the  porch  of  his  beautiful  home,  Susie, 
now  a  stately  matron,  and  Jack  with  his  pipe  in 
his  mouth,  maybe  seen  sitting  in  their  large  arm- 
chairs at  the  close  of  day,  resting  from  the  labors 
the  ranch  imposes.  A  bevy  of  handsome  children 
are  busy  with  hammock  or  swing  under  the  great 
trees  of  the  lawn;  and  as  the  twilight  gathers, 
the  old  folks  relate  to  the  little  ones  the  story  of 
those  terrible  hours  on  the  Elkhorn  so  many  years 
ago — a  picture  on  "memory's  walls"  that  time 
can  never  efface. 


I 


WAL.  HENDERSON. 

N  one  of  the  busy  little  mining  camps  just 
over  the  range  in  New  Mexico  there  prowled 
around,  about  twenty-five  years  ago,  a  no- 
torious character  whose  life  was  made  up 
of  desperate  adventures,  and  whose  tragic 
death,  which  is  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  illus- 
trates the  inevitable  fate  of  the  average  border 
bully. 

Wai.  Henderson  was  born  and  "raised" — as 
he  termed  it — in  Missouri.  He  came  over  the 
mountains  into  the  New  Mexico  mines  from  Colo- 
rado soon  after  the  first  discovery  of  gold  in  the 
Moreno  hills,  where  he  staked  off  a  claim  in 
Humbug  Gulch,  and  commenced  working  in  an 
apparently  honest  way.  He  was  a  rough,  illiter- 
ate fellow,  possessing  the  physique  of  a  giant, 
courageous  as  a  she-grizzly  with  cubs,  and  such  a 
dead  shot  with  his  revolver  that  he  soon  became 
a  terror  to  the  whole  mountain  population.  He 
was  a  desperado  in  its  fullest  sense,  without  one 
redeeming  quality,  except  that  he  was  kind  to  his 
dog,  a  wicked-looking  cur,  fit  companion  for  such 

a  surly  master. 

—9  i» 


180 


TALES   OF   THE   TRAIL. 


WAL.   HENDERSON. 


Any  more  intercourse  with  Wai.  than  was  abso- 
lutely necessary  was  carefully  avoided  by  every 
one,  and  the  idea  of  getting  into  a  dispute  with 
him — who  would  rather  shoot  than  eat  —  never 


WAL.    HENDERSON  181 

entered  the  heads  of  those  who  worked  claims  in 
the  vicinity;  so  that,  virtually,  he  commanded 
the  respect  of  a  king.  One  afternoon  Wai.  was 
seized  with  a  desire  to  start  off  on  a  little  pros- 
pecting tour  to  another  portion  of  the  range, 
where  he  suspected  the  existence  of  a  quartz  lead. 
He  left  his  claim  in  the  "  Gulch"  only  partially 
opened,  never  dreaming  for  an  instant  that  any- 
one would  have  the  temerity  to  jump  it  in  his 
absence,  after  they  had  discovered  that  he  owned 
it;  which  he  took  good  care  they  could  easily 
learn,  for  before  he  went  he  asked  one  of  his  more 
educated  neighboring  miners  to  "come  over  and 
cut  his  name"  on  a  dead  pine  stump  that  stood 
near  the  mouth  of  his  pit. 

This  friend  was  nothing  loth  to  oblige  his  surly 
comrade,  so  just  after  dinner  he  came  over,  and 
with  his  keen  bowie-knife  slashed  out  a  huge 

"Wai  henDerSoN  his  KLaime" 

on  the  dead  stump. 

It  took  him  nearly  two  hours  to  complete  his 
literary  labors,  while  Wai.  stood  by  impatiently 
watching  him,  and  when  his  friend  had  just  fin- 
ished the  last  touch  of  his  rude  letters,  remarked : 

"Well,  I  guess  there  hain't  no  one  goin'  for  to 
touch  that  thar." 


182  TALES   OF    THE    TRAIL. 

Then,  swinging  his  pick  and  shovel  over  his 
shoulder,  he  whistled  to  his  dog,  took  his  bearings 
by  a  look  at  the  sun,  started  down  the  cafion  on  a 
sort  of  shuffling  trot,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 

He  was  gone  three  days.  When  he  returned  he 
found  that  his  ground  had  been  "jumped"  by  a 
party  of  Irish  miners  who  had  come  into  the  dig- 
gings during  his  absence. 

Wai.,  in  as  quiet  a  manner  as  his  bulldog  nature 
permitted,  told  them  to  "gitl  "  But  they  swore 
they  would  hold  the  claim  in  spite  of  him ;  and  if 
he  was  as  big  as  "  Finn  McCool "  they  would  fight 
him. 

Wai.  smothered  his  rage  for  the  moment,  coolly 
walked  off  to  his  cabin,  where  he  armed  himself 
with  two  revolvers,  a  Spencer  carbine,  and  a 
wicked-looking  IXL  blade,  and  started  back  to 
the  gulch,  determined  to  drive  the  intruders  away, 
or  kill  them  if  necessary  —  it  mattered  little  as  to 
choice. 

"Git  out  of  this! — quick!— jump!  or  I'll  fill 
you  full  o'  holes!  "  was  Wal.'s  greeting  as  on  his 
return  he  came  in  sight  of  the  intruders.  But 
one  of  the  plucky  Irishmen  made  a  break  for 
Wai.,  intending  to  finish  him  by  a  well-directed 
blow  from  his  shovel. 

Wai.  quick  as  thought  brought  down  his  revol- 


WAL.    HENDERSON  188 

ver,  killing  his  man  instantly,  the  bullet  hitting 
him  in  the  forehead  directly  between  the  eyes — 
a  spot  that  was  Wal.'s  invariable  target,  which  in 
his  list  of  nearly  a  score  of  victims  he  never  failed 
to  center. 

The  two  now  thoroughly  frightened  companions 
of  the  dead  miner  fled  to  camp  and  told  the  story 
of  the  murder. 

Wai.,  believing  that  he  would  have  a  crowd  on 
his  heels  in  a  little  while,  started  hurriedly  for 
his  cabin,  proposing  to  "light  out"  for  awhile 
as  he  said ;  but  a  mob  of  plucky  men  intercepted 
him.  He  was  arrested,  taken  to  camp,  and  con- 
fined in  a  little  log  building,  around  which  a 
guard  was  placed. 

As  the  news  of  Wal.'s  latest  exploit  spread 
around  the  hills,  the  Irish  miners  flocked  in  from 
all  directions,  bent  on  revenge.  The  people  of 
the  town  expected  a  general  outbreak  between  the 
Irish  and  American  elements,  if  any  resistance  was 
offered  to  the  infuriated  friends  of  the  murdered 
man  in  their  attempt  to  take  Wai.  from  the  im- 
provised jail,  which  they  openly  proclaimed  they 
would  do  as  soon  as  night  came  on. 

The  building  used  for  the  incarceration  of  Wai. 
was  an  abandoned  log  store,  about  sixteen  feet 
square ;  the  interstices  of  the  logs  were  "chinked  " 


184  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

with  mud,  and  the  whole  surmounted  by  a  brush- 
and-dirt  roof.  In  the  corner  of  the  room,  after 
the  Mexican  fashion,  a  huge  but  rude  fireplace 
had  been  constructed  of  stone  and  earth,  from 
which  a  large  chimney  composed  of  the  same  ma- 
terial communicated  with  the  open  air  through 
the  roof  above. 

No  sooner  had  the  heavy  door  closed  on  Wai. 
than  he  began  an  accurate  survey  of  his  quarters, 
with  a  view  of  escaping  as  soon  as  the  mob  he 
confidently  expected  should  make  their  appear- 
ance. 

One  glance  at  the  immense  fireplace,  which 
yawned  like  the  opening  to  a  cave,  and  a  look 
at  the  clear  sky  above  through  the  chimney,  sat- 
isfied him  that  he  would  be  out  of  his  prison  and 
up  some  mountain  gulch  before  his  intended  cap- 
tors could  think  twice. 

Shortly  after  dark  a  motley  crowd  of  rough 
miners,  half-crazed  with  the  villainous  liquors 
they  had  been  drinking  all  the  afternoon,  assem- 
bled at  the  jail.  They  at  once  ordered  the  guard 
away,  fired  their  pistols  in  the  air,  and  made  the 
very  hills  ring  with  their  curses  and  imprecations 
upon  the  prisoner  within  the  little  hut. 

Wai.  meanwhile  had  determined  to  escape;  in 
fact,  at  the  very  time  the  crowd  had  reached  the 


WAL.    HENDERSON  185 

door  he  was  on  the  roof,  quietly  waiting  for  the 
mob  to  make  a  rush  inside,  at  which  moment  he 
proposed  to  leap  to  the  ground  from  the  rear  of 
the  building. 

He  waited  for  the  signal,  which  BOOII  came  in 
the  shape  of  a  volley  of  pistol-  and  carbine-shots, 
and  a  wild  yell  from  the  would-be  avengers,  who 
with  a  desperate  rush  made  for  the  door.  Under 
the  pressure  it  flew  from  its  fastenings,  and  swung 
open  with  a  loud  report,  throwing  half  a  dozen  of 
the  mob  upon  the  dirt  floor. 

For  a  moment  or  two  no  one  could  enter,  as 
those  nearest  the  door  became  wedged  together, 
while  the  pressure  from  the  crowd  in  the  rear 
held  them  more  securely  imprisoned  than  Wai., 
who  at  this  juncture  jumped  from  the  roof,  and, 
to  use  his  own  expression,  "  lit  out lively." 

When  the  crowd  became  aware  that  Wai.  had 
escaped  they  threatened  to  lynch  the  guard,  and 
but  for  the  intercession  of  some  of  the  cooler- 
headed  and  less  drunken  members  of  the  party, 
no  doubt  their  threats  would  have  been  carried 
into  execution. 

They  divided  into  little  bands  and  scoured  the 
camp,  visiting  every  suspected  house  or  hole  where 
their  game  might  possibly  be  secreted,  and  it  was 
not  until  early  morning  that  the  search  was  aban- 
doned. 


186  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

The  following  day  the  events  of  the  preceding 
night  were  fully  discussed,  and  as  many  conjec- 
tures were  suggested  in  relation  to  "Wai. 'a  escape 
and  whereabouts  as  there  were  groups  of  men : 
each  had  his  own  theory,  each  knew  exactly  how 
and  when  he  got  away. 

Old  Sam  Bartlett,  a  short,  thick-set,  grizzly 
veteran  miner,  expressed  it  as  his  opinion  that 
"Wai.  went  up  that  thar  chimbly,  and  by  this 
yer  time  is  well  heeled  somewhar  near  camp, 
surrounded  by  a  battery  of  small-arms,  ready  to 
fight  the  whole  outfit." 

Sam's  surmises  proved  true.  No  sooner  had 
Wai.  made  his  escape  than  he  went  to  his  own 
den  for  a  moment,  to  secure  arms  and  ammuni- 
tion ;  then  to  an  abandoned  tunnel  about  a  mile 
up  the  nearest  gulch,  where  he  immediately  com- 
menced to  fortify  his  position,  prepared  to  sell 
his  life  as  dearly  as  possible  if  the  mob  pursued 
him.  As  he  afterward  said,  "Did  not  intend  to 
pass  in  his  checks  until  he  had  made  a  sieve  of  a 
few  of  'em." 

The  Mexican  woman  with  whom  he  lived  proved 
a  faithful  ally.  Under  the  shadow  of  the  night 
she  secretly  conveyed  food  and  blankets,  never  re- 
vealing to  a  soul  where  her  "Americano"  was; 
always  earnestly  denying  any  knowledge  of  the 
fugitive. 


WAL.    HENDERSON  187 

For  nearly  a  week  Wai.  lived  in  the  abandoned 
mining  tunnel.  At  the  expiration  of.  that  time, 
when  the  excitement  had  somewhat  subsided,  and 
it  was  generally  supposed  he  had  fled  the  country, 
he  quietly  walked  into  camp  at  midnight,  broke 
open  a  stable,  took  out  a  horse,  saddled  him,  and 
galloped  off  to  Taos,  which  place  he  reached  next 
morning.  In  justice  to  Wai.,  let  it  be  said  he 
was  not  a  professional  horse-thief — he  had  not 
gotten  so  low  as  that ;  but  having  perfect  faith  in 
the  old  saw  that  * '  self-preservation  is  the  first  law 
of  nature,"  he  seized  upon  the  only  reliable  means 
to  escape  strangling  by  a  mob.  On  his  arrival  at 
Taos,  where  he  felt  secure,  he  returned  the  animal 
to  his  owner  with  thanks,  complimenting  him  on 
his  architectural  skill  in  constructing  a  stable 
that  could  be  entered  so  easily,  and  upon  the  en- 
durance of  his  horse  that  had  carried  him  so  well. 

A  little  more  than  a  month  later,  the  camp  was 
somewhat  startled  one  afternoon  at  seeing  Wai. 
riding  down  the  main  street  mounted  on  a  Mexi- 
can pony,  with  four  revolvers  buckled  around  his 
waist  and  a  carbine  slung  across  his  back.  Halt- 
ing in  front  of  a  saloon,  he  alighted,  and  with  a 
devil-may-care  sort  of  a  nod  to  the  loafers  hang- 
ing around,  invited  them  all  in  to  take  a  drink. 
To  the  crowd  at  the  bar  he  related  his  adventures 


138  TALES    OF    THE   TRAIL 

since  he  had  been  among  them ;  said  he  was  tired 
of  Taos,  and  had  come  back  to  look  after  his  min- 
ing interests  up  Humbug  Gulch,  which  he  thought 
he  had  neglected  too  long.  He  added  "if  any 
gentlemen  (?) "  were  sympathizers  with  the  would- 
be  stranglers,  he  would  be  pleased  to  step  out  on 
the  street  and  give  them  an  exhibition  of  his 
peculiar  manner  of  managing  the  portable  battery 
he  had  provided  himself  with.  No  one  seeming 
particularly  anxious  to  witness  the  proffered  en- 
tertainment, war  was  not  declared,  and  after  a 
round  or  two  of  "  Taos  lightning,"  as  whisky  was 
called  in  those  days,  Wai.  quietly  mounted  his 
horse  and  made  his  way  toward  his  little  "dug- 
out," where  he  was  met  by  his  faithful  Senora 
and  provided  with  a  bountiful  repast  of  tortillas 
and  frijoles  (corn  cake  and  beans). 

The  excitement  in  camp  gradually  exhausted 
itself,  and  it  was  mutually  agreed  that  Wai.  should 
not  be  molested  if  he  kept  away  from  Humbug 
Gulch. 

Wai.  apparently  accepted  the  situation;  turned 
his  attention  to  the  laudable  ambition  of  supply- 
ing the  camp  with  cord-wood,  and  almost  any  day 
thereafter  could  be  seen  coming  into  town  with 
his  load. 

One  day  about  two  months  after  he  had  settled 


WAL.    HENDERSON  189 

himself  down  to  legitimate  pursuits,  while  sitting 
in  a  saloon,  fatigued  by  a  somewhat  arduous 
morning's  work,  a  party  of  Irish  miners  entered, 
all  of  whom  were  more  or  less  under  the  influence 
of  liquor.  After  bandying  words  with  Wai.  in 
reference  to  his  claim  and  the  murder  of  their 
companion,  one,  rather  more  bold  then  discreet, 
approached  Wai.  holding  a  large  stone,  and  said, 
"Be  jabers,  Wai.,  you  would  look  better  dead 
than  alive;"  when  Wai.,  as  quick  as  thought, 
drew  his  pistol,  and  drawing  a  bead  on  the  Irish- 
man, said,  "Drop  that  rock!  " 

The  stone  dropped.  Wai.  quietly  resumed  his 
seat  without  another  word,  replaced  his  pistol  in 
its  holster,  coolly  lighted  his  pipe,  and  com- 
menced to  smoke.  The  gang  were  evidently  bent 
on  mischief;  but  Wai.  could  not  be  intimidated, 
and  made  no  move  to  leave  his  seat,  but  kept  his 
keen  eye  on  every  act  of  the  drunken  mob. 

He  listened  coolly  and  indifferently  for  a  while 
to  their  coarse  jests  and  braggadocio  threats  cast  at 
him.  But  there  comes  a  moment  when  "  patience 
ceases  to  be  a  virtue,"  and  comes  soonest  to  men 
of  such  caliber  as  Wai.  When  another  of  the 
belligerents  approached  too  near  with  an  outra- 
geous remark,  Wai.  jumped  to  his  feet  and  said, 
"By !  I  think  I'll  kill  one  of  you  just  for 


140  TALES   OF   THE   TRAIL 

luck,  and  put  a  stop  to  this  nonsense." 

Drawing  out  his  pistol  he  fired,  the  ball,  as  al- 
ways, taking  effect  in  the  bridge  of  his  victim's 
nose,  passing  through  the  right  eye  and  coming 
out  in  front  of  the  ear. 

At  the  report  of  the  pistol  a  crowd  rushed  in, 
but  no  one  attempted  to  interfere  with  \Val.,  who 
took  a  position  against  the  side  of  the  room,  where 
he  invited  any  one  who  wanted  him,  to  "step  up ; 
but  if  any  one  did  he  would  make  a  sieve  of  him." 

No  one  desirous  of  being  converted  into  that 
useful  article  just  then,  not  a  soul  stepped  for- 
ward. 

The  alcalde,*  and  sheriff  were  sent  for,  and  soon 
arrived.  Wai.  gave  himself  up,  and  was  remanded 
to  his  old  quarters,  the  little  log  jail  from  which 
he  had  so  successfully  made  his  escape  by  way  of 
the  huge  chimney,  on  a  former  occasion. 

The  drunken  companions  of  the  murdered  miner 
immediately  upon  the  arrest  of  Wai.  started  off 
to  muster  up  a  crowd  of  their  countrymen,  deter- 
mined this  time  to  mete  out  summary  vengeance 
upon  the  assassin  of  their  comrade. 

To  preclude  the  possibility  of  an  escape  on  the 
part  of  the  prisoner,  an  additional  guard  was  em- 

*The  Spanish  title  of  a  magistrate  corresponding  to  justice  of  the 
peace. 


WAL.    HENDERSON  141 

ployed  to  watch  the  outside  of  the  jail,  arid  two 
men  were  posted  on  the  roof — "  no  goin*  up  that 
thar  chimbley  this  time." 

Shortly  after  dark  another  mob,  composed  of 
the  friends  of  Wal.'s  last  victim,  poured  into 
camp  from  the  gulches  and  hills  and  proceeded 
directly  to  the  jail,  determined  that  this,  time 
their  game  should  not  slip  through  their  fingers. 

In  a  few  moments  the  infuriated  and  howling 
would-be  lynchers  forced  the  door  of  the  building 
open  in  the  same  manner  as  they  had  done  before, 
but  their  bird  had  flown  — Wai.  was  not  there  I 

Knowing  the  desperate  character  of  the  men 
who  had  come  to  take  his  life,  "Wai.  had  resolved 
to  make  a  determined  effort  to  get  away  from 
them  if  possible,  when  he  first  heard  them  surging 
and  howling  in  the  distance,  and  putting  all  his 
quick  wits  at  work,  soon  decided  what  might  be 
done. 

Standing  at  the  side  of  the  door  as  it  was 
crushed  from  its  fastenings,  he  allowed  the  crowd 
to  tumble  and  rush  pell-mell  into  the  dark  room, 
while  he  quickly  slipped  past  them  out  into  the 
street,  walked  slowly  to  the  first  corner,  then  shot 
into  the  night — and  was  freel 

The  rage  and  disappointment  of  the  exasperated 
miners  on  the  discovery  that  their  man  had  again 


142  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

eluded  them,  can  better  be  imagined  than  de- 
Bcribed. 

Wai.  proceeded  to  his  little  home,  took  one  of 
his  horses  from  the  stable,  rode  rapidly  out  of 
camp  over  a  mountain  trail,  and  in  a  few  hours 
was  miles  away,  where  he  found  a  safe  retreat. 

The  disappointed  crowd  on  discovering  that  for 
the  present  at  least  Wai.  was  beyond  their  power, 
slowly  retired  to  their  homes,  swearing  they  would 
kill  Wai.  on  sight  if  he  ever  made  his  appearance 
in  camp  again. 

But  a  few  days  elapsed  before  Wai.  again 
dropped  into  town;  though  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  no  attempt  was  made  to  arrest  him. 

For  weeks  everything  about  camp  moved  along 
quietly,  and  it  was  hoped  that  further  disturbance 
was  at  an  end.  One  afternoon,  however,  while 
Wai.  waa  standing  in  front  of  one  of  the  little 
stores  scattered  at  intervals  through  the  long 
main  street  of  the  town,  engaged  in  conversa- 
tion with  a  lot  of  miners  who  had  congregated 
there,  a  horseman  came  galloping  up  the  principal 
thoroughfare,  halting  directly  in  front  of  the  door 
where  Wai  and  his  companions  were  talking. 

Taking  a  single  glance  at  Wai.,  he  exclaimed, 
"You  are  the  man  I  am  looking  for !  "  and  draw- 
ing his  revolver,  commenced  shooting.  He  fired 


WAL.    HENDERSON  143 

three  shots  in  rapid  succession,  neither  of  which, 
however,  took  effect ;  but  before  he  could  cock  his 
pistol  again,  which  he  was  in  the  act  of  doing, 
Wai.  had  "  drawn  a  bead  "  on  him  and  fired. 

The  ball  struck  him  in  the  trigger  thumb  and 
thereby  turned,  or  it  would  have  found  its  proper 
center  between  the  eyes.  Finding  himself  disa- 
bled, the  rider  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  fled  to 
the  friendly  shelter  of  the  nearest  ravine,  but  soon 
returned  dismounted,  as  he  discovered  that  he  had 
not  been  followed  by  the  terrible  Wai. 

A  crowd  gathered  around  to  "  shoot  the  wretch 
who  had  so  deliberately  jeopardized  the  lives  of 
innocent  citizens ' ' ;  but  he  called  out  that  he  was 
wounded — "  for  God's  sake  not  to  kill  him !"  He 
would  give  himself  up  quietly  if  he  could  be  per- 
mitted to  see  a  doctor. 

The  doctor  happened  to  be  sitting  in  front  of 
his  office  near  by,  and  took  him  in  and  amputated 
his  thumb. 

He  was  then  turned  over  to  the  sheriff,  who 
placed  him  in  an  unoccupied  log  building,  and 
appointed  a  guard  to  watch  him. 

During  the  night,  however,  following  in  the 
footsteps  of  the  illustrious  Wai.,  he  eluded  the 
vigilance  of  the  guard,  made  good  his  escape  and 
ran  to  the  mountains,  where  he  was  received  by 


144  TALES    OP   THE   TRAIL 

friends,  who  were  determined  to  protect  him  from 
rearrest. 

The  following  day  word  was  sent  the  doctor  to 
come  out  and  dress  hia  wounds.  Obeying  the 
summons,  the  doctor  found  him  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  his  cabin,  at  the  side  of  a  mining-ditch, 
surrounded  by  an  array  of  pistols,  carbines,  and 
knives,  determined  to  resist  any  attempt  to  re- 
arrest  him,  the  point  selected  commanding  every 
avenue  of  approach  up  the  mountain-slope. 

Here  he  remained  several  days.  He  sent  .word 
to  the  alcalde,  through  some  of  his  friends,  that 
he  would  die  before  giving  himself  up  to  the 
"  stranglers,"  but  would  submit  if  soldiers  were 
to  come  for  him. 

Upon  this  message  of  defiance  no  further  effort 
was  made  to  capture  him,  and  the  town  lapsed 
once  more  into  its  wonted  quietude.  Even  Hen- 
derson became  remarkably  docile,  no  further  dis- 
turbances occurring  between  him  and  the  miners 
—  the  trouble  ending,  apparently,  by  mutual  con- 
sent. 

Some  months  subsequent  to  the  incidents  re- 
lated in  the  foregoing,  the  little  camp  was  again 
thrown  into  a  state  of  excitement,  in  consequence 
of  a  report  of  the  robbery  of  the  mail  in  the  canon 
between  Elizabethtown  and  Ute  creek. 


WAL.    HENDERSON  146 

It  was  bruited  about,  and  proved  true,  that 
when  the  coach  (which  made  tri-weekly  trips  be- 
tween the  camp  and  the  Cimarron,  to  connect 
with  the  great  Southern  Overland  Line)  reached 
a  lonely  point  in  the  canon  where  the  road  was 
narrow  and  wound  around  a  side-hill  covered  with 
a  dense  growth  of  scrubby  pines,  three  disguised 
men  would  slip  out  and  order  the  driver  to  halt ; 
then,  without  moving  from  their  place  on  either 
side  of  the  confined  pass,  with  their  rifles  pointed 
toward  him,  demand  that  the  express  box  be 
thrown  from  the  boot. 

This  modest  request  was  always  complied  with, 
after  which  they  ordered  the  driver  to  move  on, 
much  to  the  relief  of  the  thoroughly  frightened 
conductor,  and  the  two  or  three  passengers  in- 
side. 

Five  or  six  depredations  of  this  character  were 
committed  in  the  course  of  a  month.  The  people 
in  camp  began  to  have  their  suspicions  aroused, 
and  many  were  the  conjectures  as  to  who  the 
guilty  parties  could  be. 

A  company  was  formed  to  scour  the  canon,  but 
not  even  a  clue  of  the  highwaymen  could  be 
found,  nor  a  place  that  exhibited  any  signs  of  a 
rendezvous. 

This  fact  confirmed  the  suspicions  of  the  law- 
—  10 


146  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

abiding  portion  of  the  community,  that  there  ex- 
isted in  their  midst  and  neighboring  settlements 
on  Ute  creek  an  organized  band  of  "  road  agents," 
who  started  out  only  on  favorable  opportunities 
for  carrying  on  their  nefarious  purposes. 

It  was  believed  by  many  that  persons  residing 
in  Elizabethtown  kept  watch,  advised  their  part- 
ners in  this  crime  at  Ute  creek  at  what  time  a 
large  shipment  of  gold  would  probably  be  made, 
and  the  number  of  passengers,  with  their  names, 
the  coach  would  carry. 

Wai.  absented  himself  from  the  camp  a  day  or 
two  at  a  time,  and  it  began  to  be  murmured  that 
he  could  tell,  if  he  would,  a  great  deal  concerning 
these  systematic  robberies.  It  was  even  hinted 
that  he  not  only  directly  aided  and  abetted  the 
attacks  on  the  coach,  but  took  an  active  part 
himself. 

He  was  very  reticent  on  the  subject,  and  it  was 
a  fact  commented  upon  by  nearly  every  one  in 
camp,  that  after  an  absence  of  two  or  three  days 
he  would  invariably  turn  up  the  very  morning 
after  a  robbery  with  a  load  of  wood  for  sale,  and 
as  demurely  ride  through  town  on  his  little  wagon 
as  if  such  a  thing  as  an  attack  on  the  coach  the 
day  before  had  never  taken  place. 

Of  course  no  positive  proof  of  his  complicity 


WAL.    HENDERSON  147 

could  be  obtained,  yet  it  was  generally  believed 
that  he  belonged  to  the  gang. 

The  man  who  kept  the  principal  saloon  was  well 
known  throughout  the  Territory,  not  only  on  ac- 
count of  his  size  and  weight  but  also  in  conse- 
quence of  his  insatiable  thirst  for  "bug-juice" 
and  his  dexterous  manipulation  of  the  cards ;  and 
he  was  withal  a  law-abiding  citizen.  He  would 
tolerate  nothing  that  was  not  strictly  "regular" 
in  the  eye  of  the  law.  He  would  n't  steal  a  horse, 
or  carry  off  a  red-hot  stove,  but  woe  to  the  unfor- 
tunate and  confiding  individual  who  sat  down  to 
his  game  with  the  expectation  of  leaving  with  a 
cent  in  his  clothes. 

His  thorough  knowledge  of  monte,  faro,  poker, 
and  other  "  genteel  "  games,  made  him  as  much  a 
terror  behind  the  green-covered  table  as  a  pack  of 
highway  robbers.  While  he  would  not  hesitate 
to  fleece  some  unsuspecting  victim  in  a  "  gentle- 
manly "  game,  he  had  no  sympathy  with  any  law- 
breaker or  ' '  road  agent ' '  who  would  halt  a  man 
for  his  money  without  the  farcical  proceeding  of 
having  a  little  bout  of  cards  to  win  it  honor- 
ably. 

One  afternoon  while  the  robberies  of  the  mail 
coach  were  at  their  height,  three  or  four  broken- 
down  gamblers  sauntered  into  his  saloon  and 


148  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

commenced  to  discuss  the  last  depredation,  and 
the  modus  operandi  of  the  efficient  "  agents." 

Prominent  among  the  group  was  Wai. ;  each 
had  his  theory  to  advance,  and  each  expressed  it 
freely. 

The  barkeeper  said:  "Don't  yer  understand," 
—  a  favorite  expression  when  excited — "don't 

yer  understand,  the -rascals  don't  live  a  great 

ways  from  this  camp,  and  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  a 
few  of  them — don't  yer  understand — are  right  in 
sight  of  this  shebang  now,  don't  yer  understand. 
I  hain't  got  no  sympathy  for  any  such  work — 
don't  yer  understand  —  and  would  help  hang 
every  mother's  son  of  'em,  don't  yer  under- 
stand!" 

Old  Sam  Bartlett  expressed  it  as  "his  opinion 
that  Reub.  Jones,  of  Ute  creek,  knowed  all  about 
it,  and  was  at  the  head  of  the  gang." 

Wai.  put  in  his  oar  occasionally,  but  from  his 
remarks  it  was  apparent  that  his  sympathy  was 
rather  in  favor  of  that  style  of  robbing  than 
"  stealing  it  through  a old  faro-box." 

Words  waxed  high,  and  it  was  evident  there 
"was  going  to  be  a  difficult,"  as  Kit  Carson  used 
to  say. 

The  proprietor  saw  that  trouble  would  ensue  if 
the  conversation  was  not  dropped ;  so,  desirous  of 


WAL.    HENDERSON  149 

putting  an  end  to  it,  he  turned  to  Wai.  and  said : 
"Wai.,  we've  had  enough  of  this  —  so  come  on 
and  have  a  drink  and  go  home." 

Wai.  accepted  the  invitation,  and  with  a  clos- 
ing remark  that  ' '  he  considered  the  robbers  were 

a  sight  better  than  some  of  the  genteel 

thieves  who  lived  right  in  camp,"  he  walked  up 
to  the  bar,  while  the  owner  from  behind  said, 
"Wai.,  what  will  you  have?  " 

"  I  '11  take  whisky  in  mine,"  answered  Wai. 

Glass  and  bottle  were  set  out,  and  while  the 
proprietor  was  mixing  a  toddy  beneath  the  bar 
for  himself,  Wai.  seized  the  bottle,  poured  his 
glass  full  to  the  brim,  then  deliberately  emptied 
it  on  the  counter  with  the  remark,  "  If  you  don't 
like  that,  why,  then  take  your  change  anyway  you 
want  it,"  at  the  same  instant  putting  his  hand  on 
his  hip  as  if  in  the  act  of  drawing  his  pistol. 

As  quick  as  thought,  the  proprietor,  knowing 
the  desperate  character  of  the  man  he  had  to  deal 
with,  seized  a  pistol  from  behind  the  bar,  leveled 
it,  fired,  and  Wai.  fell  dead;  then,  immediately 
stepping  from  where  he  was  to  the  front,  pistol  in 
hand,  he  emptied  the  remaining  chambers  of  hia 
revolver  into  the  prostrate  body. 

He  gave  himself  up  at  once;  an  examination 
was  shortly  held  before  the  alcalde,  where  all  the 


150  TALES    OF    THK    TRAIL 

facts  were  elicited,  and  the  verdict  of  the  jiiry 
was,  "Justifiable  homicide." 

Thus  ended  the  career  of  Wai.  Henderson,  whose 
bones  are  reposing  on  the  little  hill  above  the  now 
abandoned  camp,  where  a  score  or  more  of  others 
lie  who  went  the  same  way. 


KIT    CARSON'S    PAWNEE    ROCK    STORY. 


AWNEE  ROCK  has  probably  been  the 
scene  of  a  hundred  fights,  and  a  volume 
could  be  written  in  relation  to  it.  Kit 
Carson,  one  night  some  years  ago,  when 
camped  half-way  np  the  rugged  sides 
of  "Old  Baldy  "  in  the  Raton  Range,  told  in  his 
peculiarly  expressive  way,  among  other  border 
reminiscences,  the  following  little  story,  the  inci- 
dents of  which  occurred  long  years  ago. 

The  night  was  cold,  although  midsummer,  and 
we  were  huddled  around  a  little  fire  of  pine-knots, 
more  than  eight  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  sea,  close  to  the  snow  limit.  We  had  left 
Maxwell's  early  in  the  morning  to  trace  a  quartz 
lead  that  cropped  out  near  the  mouth  of  the  cop- 
per mine  worked  by  him,  and  night  overtook  us 
many  miles  from  the  ranch ;  BO  we  concluded  to 
remain  on  the  mountain  until  daylight.  We  had 
no  blankets,  and  of  course  had  to  sit  up  through 
the  long  hours;  and  as  it  was  terribly  cold,  we 
made  a  fire,  filled  our  pipes,  and  spun  yarns  to 

151 


152  TALKS    OF    THE    TRAIL 

keep  awake.  Our  lunch  that  we  had  brought  was 
all  eaten  about  noon, — BO  we  were  supperless  as 
well;  but  a  swift  cold  mountain  stream  ran 
close  to  our  little  camp,  and  we  took  a  swallow 
of  that  occasionally,  which  served  the  place  of 
a  meal. 

Kit  (the  General,  as  every  one  called  him)  was 
in  a  good  humor  for  talking,  and  we  naturally 
took  advantage  of  this  to  draw  him  out, — for 
usually  he  was  the  most  reticent  of  men  in  rela- 
tion to  his  own  exploits.  The  night  was  pretty 
dark,  there  was  no  moon,  and  our  fire  of  dry  knots 
blazed  up  beautifully  every  time  the  two  Indians, 
whom  we  had  Appointed  to  this  special  duty, 
threw  a  fresh  armful  on.  The  flames  cast  their 
weird  and  fanciful  shadows  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain,  and  contrasted  curiously  with  the  inky 
blackness  all  around  below  us,  while  far  above 
could  be  seen  the  dim  outline  of  "  Old  Baldy's  " 
scarred  and  weather-beaten  crest — crag  piled 
upon  crag,  until  they  seemed  to  touch  the  starlit 
sky. 

For  an  hour  or  two  the  conversation  was  con- 
fined to  the  probabilities  of  gold  being  found  in 
paying  quantities  in  the  mountains  and  gulches 
of  the  range ;  and  when  the  interest  on  that  sub- 
ject flagged,  Maxwell  having  made  a  casual  re- 


KIT  CARSON'S  PAWNEE  BOCK  STORY         153 

mark  in  relation  to  some  peak  near  by,  just 
discernible  in  the  darkness,  and  connecting  the 
locality  with  some  trouble  he  had  had  ten  or  a 
dozen  years  before  with  the  Indians,  his  reminis- 
cences opened  Kit  Carson's  mouth,  and  he  said  he 
remembered  one  of  the  "worst  dim1  cults  "  a  man 
ever  got  into ;  so  he  made  a  fresh  corn-shuck  cig- 
arette and  told  us  the  following  about  Pawnee 
Rock,  which  he  said  had  been  written  up  years 
ago,  and  that  he  had  a  paper  containing  it 
(which  he  afterward  gave  me),  and  which,  with 
what  Kit  related  orally  that  night,  is  here  pre- 
sented : 

"It  was  old  Jim  Gibson — poor  fellow,  he  went 
under  in  a  fight  with  the  Utes  over  twenty  years 
ago,  and  his  bones  are  bleaching  somewhere  in  the 
dark  canons  9/  the  range,  or  on  the  slopes  of  the 
Spanish  Peaks.  He  used  to  tell  of  a  scrimmage 
he  and  another  fellow  had  on  the  Arkansas  with 
the  Kiowas,  in  1836. 

"  Jim  and  his  partner,  Bill  something-or- 
other,  —  I  disremember  his  name  now,  —  had 
been  trapping  up  in  the  Powder  river  coun- 
try during  the  winter,  with  unusual  good  luck. 
The  beaver  was  mighty  thick  in  the  whole 
Yellowstone  region  in  them  days,  and  Jim  and 
Bill  got  an  early  start  on  their  journey  for  the 


154  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

River*  that  spring.  You  see  they  expected  to 
sell  their  truck  in  "Weston,  Mo.,  which  was  the 
principal  trading -point  on  the  River  then. 
They  walked  the  whole  distance  —  over  fifteen 
hundred  miles  —  driving  three  good  mules  before 
them,  on  which  their  plunder  was  packed,  and 
they  got  along  well  enough  until  they  struck  the 
Arkansas  river  at  Pawnee  Rock.  Here  they  met 
a  war  party  of  about  sixty  Kiowas,  who  treed 
them  on  the  Rock.  Jim  and  Bill  were  noto- 
riously brave,  and  both  dead  shots. 

"  Before  they  reached  the  Rock,  to  which  they 
were  driven,  they  killed  ten  of  the  Kiowas,  and 
had  not  received  a  scratch.  They  had  plenty  of 
powder  and  a  pouchful  of  bullets  each.  They 
also  had  a  couple  of  jack-rabbits  for  food  in  case 
of  a  siege,  and  the  perpendicular  walls  of  the 
Rock  made  them  a  natural  fortification  —  an  al- 
most impregnable  one. 

1 '  They  succeeded  in  securely  picketing  their 
animals  on  the  west  side  of  the  Rock,  where  they 

could  protect  them  by  their  unerring  rifles 

but  the  story  of  the  fight  must  be  told  in  Jim's 
own  way;  he  was  a  pretty  well  educated  fellow, 
and  had  been  to  college,  I  believe,  in  his  younger 
days, —  lost  the  gal  he  was  going  to  marry,  or  had 

*In  the  old  days,  among  the  plainsmen  and  mountaineers,  whenever 
"the  River"  was  alluded  to  it  was  understood  to  mean  the  Missouri 


KIT  CARSON'S  PAWNEE  ROCK  STORY          155 

Borne  bad  luck  or  other,  and  took  to  the  prairies 
when  he  was  about  twenty.  I  will  try  to  tell  it 
as  near  as  he  did  as  possible  t 

"After  the  durued  red  cusses  had  treed  us, 
they  picked  up  their  dead  and  packed  them  to 
their  camp  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek  a  little 
piece  off.  In  a  few  moments  back  they  all  came, 
mounted,  with  all  their  fixings  and  war-paint  on. 
Then  they  commenced  to  circle  around  us,  com- 
ing closer,  Indian  fashion,  every  time,  till  they 
got  within  easy  rifle  range,  when  they  slung  them- 
selves on  the  fore  sides  of  their  ponies,  and  in 
that  position  opened  on  us.  Their  arrows  fell 
like  a  hail-storm  around  us  for  a  few  minutes, 
but  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  none  of  them 
struck.  I  was  afraid  that  first  of  all,  they  would 
attempt  to  kill  our  mules;  but  I  suppose  they 
thought  they  had  the  dead  wood  on  us,  and  the 
mules  would  come  mighty  handy  for  their  own 
use  after  our  scalps  were  dangling  at  their  belts. 
But  we  were  taking  in  all  the  chances.  Bill  kept 
his  eyea  skinned,  and  whenever  he  saw  a  stray  leg 
or  head  he  drew  a  bead  on  it,  and  thug!  over  tum- 
bled its  owner  every  time,  with  a  yell  of  rage. 

"  "Whenever  they  attempted  to  carry  off  their 
dead,  that  was  the  moment  we  took  the  advan- 
tage, and  we  poured  it  into  them  as  soon  as  they 


156  TALKS    OF    THK    TRAIL 

rallied  for  that  purpose,  with  telling  effect.  We 
wasted  no  shots;  we  had  now  only  about  forty 
bulleta  between  us,  and  the  miserable  cusses 
seemed  thick  as  ever. 

"  The  sun  was  nearly  down  by  this  time,  and 
at  dark  they  did  not  seem  anxious  to  renew  the 
fight  that  night,  but  I  could  see  their  mounted 
patrols  at  a  respectable  distance  on  every  side, 
watching  to  prevent  our  escape.  I  took  advan- 
tage of  the  darkness  to  go  down  and  get  a  few 
buffalo-chips  to  cook  our  supper,  for  we  were 
mighty  hungry,  and  to  change  the  animals  to 
where  they  could  get  a  little  more  grass, —  though 
for  that  matter  it  was  nearly  up  to  a  man's  head 
all  over  the  bottom. 

"  I  got  back  to  our  camp  on  top  without  any 
trouble,  when  we  made  a  little  fire  and  cooked  a 
rabbit.  "We  had  to  go  without  water,  and  so  did 
the  animals;  though  we  did  not  mind  the  want 
of  it  so  much  ourselves,  we  pitied  the  mules, 
which  had  had  none  since  we  broke  camp  in  the 
morning.  It  was  of  no  use  to  worry  about  it, 
though;  the  nearest  water  was  in  the  spring  at 
the  Indian  camp,  and  it  would  be  certain  death 
to  attempt  to  get  there. 

"I  was  afraid  the  red  devils  would  fire  the 
prairie  in  the  morning  and  endeavor  to  smoke 


KIT  CARBON'S  PAWNEE  ROCK  BTORY         157 

or  burn  us  out.  The  grass  was  just  in  a  condition 
to  make  a  lively  blaze,  and  we  might  escape  the 
flames, —  and  we  might  not. 

"We  watched  with  eager  eyes  for  the  first 
gray  streaks  of  dawn  that  would  usher  in  another 
day — perhaps  the  last  for  us. 

"  The  next  morning's  sun  had  scarcely  peeped 
above  the  horizon,  when,  with  an  infernal  yell, 
the  Indians  broke  for  the  Rock,  and  we  knew 
some  new  project  had  entered  their  heads. 

"  The  wind  was  springing  up  pretty  fresh,  and 
nature  seemed  to  conspire  with  the  red  devils  if 
they  really  meant  to  burn  us  out, —  and  I  had  no 
doubt  now  from  their  movements  that  that  was 
what  they  intended.  The  darned  cusses  kept  at 
such  a  respectful  distance  from  our  rifles  that  it 
chafed  us  to  know  that  we  could  not  stop  the  in- 
fernal throats  of  some  of  them  with  our  bullets ; 
but  we  had  to  choke  our  rage  and  watch  events 
closely. 

"I  took  occasion  during  the  lull  in  hostilities 
to  crawl  down  to  where  the  mules  were  and  shift 
them  to  the  east  side  of  the  Rock,  where  the  wall 
was  the  highest,  so  that  the  flames  and  smoke 
might  possibly  pass  by  them  without  so  much 
danger  as  on  the  exposed  other  side. 

"  I  succeeded  in  doing  this,  and  also  in  tearing 


158  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

away  the  grass  for  several  yards  around  the  ani- 
mals, and  was  just  starting  back  when  Bill  called 

out,  ' 'em,  they  've  fired  the  prairie  I ' 

"I  reached  the  top  of  the  Rock  in  a  moment, 
and  took  in  at  a  glance  what  was  coming.  The 
spectacle  for  a  short  interval  was  indescribably 
grand.  The  sun  was  shining  with  all  the  powers 
of  its  rays  on  the  huge  clouds  of  smoke  as  they 
rolled  down  from  the  north,  tinting  them  with  a 
glorious  crimson.  I  had  barely  time  to  get  under 
shelter  of  a  projecting  point  of  the  Rock  when  the 
wind  and  smoke  swept  down  to  the  ground,  and 
instantly  we  were  enveloped  in  the  darkness  of 
midnight.  We  ,could  not  discern  a  single  object, 
neither  Indians,  horses,  the  prairie,  nor  sun  —  and 
what  a  terrible  wind  I  I  have  never  experienced 
its  equal  in  violence  since.  We  stood  breathless, 
and  clinging  to  the  projection  of  our  little  mass 
of  rock  did  not  realize  that  the  fire  was  so  near 
until  we  were  struck  in  the  face  by  the  burning 
buffalo-chips  that  were  carried  toward  us  with 
the  rapidity  of  the  wind.  I  was  really  scared ;  it 
seemed  as  if  we  must  suffocate.  But  we  were 
saved  miraculously.  The  sheet  of  flame  passed 
us  twenty  yards  away,  as  the  wind  fortunately 
shifted  the  moment  the  fire  reached  the  Rock. 
Yet  the  darkness  was  so  perfect  we  did  not  see  the 


KIT  CARSON'S  PAWNEE  ROCK  STORY          159 

flame;  we  only  knew  that  we  were  safe,  as  the 
clear  sky  greeted  us  behind  the  dense  cloud  of 
smoke. 

"Two  of  the  Indians  and  their  horses  were 
caught  in  their  own  trap,  and  perished  miserably. 
They  had  attempted  to  reach  the  east  side  of  the 
Rock  where  the  mules  were,  either  to  cut  them 
loose  or  crawl  up  on  us  while  bewildered  in  the 
smoke,  if  we  escaped  death.  But  they  had  pro- 
ceeded only  a  few  rods  on  their  little  expedition 
when  the  terrible  darkness  of  the  smoke-cloud 
overtook  them. 

"All  the  game  on  the  prairie  which  the  fire 
swept  over  was  killed  too.  Only  a  few  buffaloes 
were  visible  in  that  region  before  the  fire,  but 
even  they  were  killed.  The  path  of  this  horrible 
passage  of  flames,  as  we  learned  afterward,  was 
marked  all  along  with  the  crisped  and  blackened 
carcasses  of  wolves,  coyotes,  turkeys,  grouse,  and 
every  variety  of  small  birds.  Indeed,  it  seemed 
as  if  no  living  thing  it  met  had  escaped  its  fury. 

"The  fire  assumed  such  gigantic  proportions 
and  moved  with  such  rapidity  before  the  terrible 
wind,  that  even  the  Arkansas  river  did  not  check 
its  path  for  a  moment,  and  we  watched  it  carried 
across  as  readily  as  if  the  river  had  not  been  in 
the  way.  This  fearful  prairie-fire  traveled  at  the 


160  TALES   OF   THE    TRAIL 

rate  of  eight  miles  in  fifteen  minutes,  and  was 
probably  the  most  violent  in  its  features  that  ever 
visited  that  country.  It  was  the  most  sublime 
picture  I  ever  looked  upon,  and  for  a  moment  it 
made  us  forget  our  perilous  position. 

11  My  first  thought,  after  the  danger  had  passed, 
was  of  the  poor  mules.  I  crawled  down  to  where 
they  were,  and  found  them  badly  singed  but  not 
seriously  hurt.  I  thought,  '  So  far  so  good ; '  our 
mules  and  traps  were  all  right,  so  we  took  courage 
and  began  to  think  we  should  get  out  of  the  nasty 
scrape  in  some  way  or  other. 

"In  the  meantime  the  Indians,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  four  or  five  left  to  guard  the  Rock  so  we 
could  not  escape,  had  gone  back  to  their  camp  on 
the  creek,  and  were  evidently  concocting  Borne 
new  scheme  to  capture  or  kill  us. 

"We  waited  patiently  two  or  three  hours  for 
the  development  of  events,  snatching  a  little  sleep 
by  turns,  until  the  sun  was  about  four  hours  high, 
when  the  Indians  commenced  their  infernal  howl- 
ing again,  and  we  knew  they  had  hit  upon  some- 
thing; BO  we  were  on  the  alert  in  a  moment  to 
discover  it,  and  eucher  them  if  possible. 

1 '  The  devils  this  time  had  tied  all  their  horses 
together,  covered  them  with  branches  of  trees  that 
they  had  cut  on  the  creek,  packed  all  the  lodge- 


KIT    CARBON'S    PAWNEE    ROCK    8TORY  161 

skins  on  these,  and  then,  driving  the  living  breast- 
works before  them  toward  us,  themselves  followed 
close  behind  on  foot.  They  kept  moving  slowly 
but  surely  in  the  direction  of  the  Rock,  and  mat- 
ters began  to  look  serious  for  us  once  more. 

"Bill  put  his  hand  in  mine  now,  and  said, 

'Jim,  now  by we  got  to  fight;  we  hain't  done 

nothin'  yit;  this  means  business.' 

"I  said,  'You're  right,  Bill,  old  fellow;  but 
they  can't  get  us  alive.  Our  plan  is  to  kill  their 
ponies  and  make  the  cusses  halt. ' 

"As  I  spoke,  Bill — who  was  one  of  the  best 
shots  on  the  Plains — kind  o'  threw  his  eye  care- 
lessly along  the  bar'l  of  his  rifle,  and  one  of  the 
ponies  tumbled  over  on  the  blackened  sod.  One 
of  the  Indians  ran  out  to  cut  him  loose,  as  I  ex- 
pected, and  I  took  him  clean  off  his  feet  without 
a  groan.  Quicker  than  it  takes  me  to  tell  it,  we 
had  stretched  out  twelve  of  them  on  the  prairie, 
and  we  made  it  so  hot  for  them  that  they  got  out 
of  range,  and  were  apparently  holding  a  council 
of  war. 

"We  kept  watching  the  devils'  movements,  for 
we  knew  they  would  Boon  be  up  to  some  con- 
founded trick.  The  others  did  not  make  their 
appearance  immediately  from  behind  their  living 
breastworks,  so  we  fired  two  shots  apiece  into  the 
—11 


162  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

horses,  killing  three  of  them  and  throwing  the 
whole  outfit  into  confusion. 

"We  soon  stopped  their  little  plan,  and  they 
had  now  only  the  dead  bodies  of  the  ponies  we 
had  killed,  to  protect  them,  for  the  others  had 
broken  loose  and  stampeded  off  to  camp.  It  was 
getting  pretty  hot  for  Mr.  Indian  now,  who  was 
on  foot  and  in  easy  range  of  our  rifles.  "We 
cleaned  out  one  or  two  more  while  they  were 
gradually  pulling  themselves  out  of  range,  when 
of  course  we  had  to  stop  firing.  The  Indians 
started  off  to  their  camp  again,  and  during  the 
lull  in  hostilities  we  took  an  account  of  stock. 
We  found  we  had  used  up  all  our  ammunition  ex- 
cept three  or  four  loads,  and  despair  seemed  to 
hover  over  us  once  more. 

"  In  a  few  moments  we  were  surprised  to  see 
one  of  the  warriors  come  out  alone  from  camp, 
and  tearing  off  a  piece  of  his  white  blanket,  he 
boldly  walked  toward  the  Rock.  Coming  up 
within  hearing,  he  asked  if  we  would  have  a  talk 
with  him.  We  told  him  yes,  but  did  not  look  for 
any  good  results  from  it.  We  could  not  expect 
anything  less  than  torture  if  we  allowed  ourselves 
to  be  taken  alive,  so  we  determined  not  to  be 
caught  in  any  trap.  We  knew  we  had  done  them 
too  much  damage  to  expect  any  mercy,  so  we  pre- 
pared to  die  in  the  fight,  if  we  must  die. 


KIT  CARBON'S  PAWNEE  BOCK  BTORY 


163 


"We  beckoned  the  young  buck  nearer  and  lis- 
tened to  what  he  had  to  say.  He  said  they  were 
part  of  White  Buffalo's  band  of  Kiowas ;  that  the 
war  chief  who  was  here 
with  them  was  O-ton- 
son-e-var  ('a  herd  of 
buffaloes'),  and  that 
he  wanted  us  to  come 
to  the  camp;  that  we 
were  '  heap  brave ' ;  we 
should  be  kindly 
treated,  and  that  the 
tribe  would  adopt  us. 
They  were  on  their  way 
to  the  Sioux  country 
north  of  the  Platte; 
that  they  were  going 
there  to  steal  horses 
from  the  Sioux.  They 
expected  a  fight,  and 
wanted  us  to  help 
them. 

"Bill  and  myself 
knew  the   darned    In- 
dians too  well  to  swallow  their  chaff,  so  we  told 
them  that  we  could  not  think  of  accepting  their 
terms ;  that  we  were  on  our  way  to  the  Missouri, 


O-TON-SON-E-VAR. 


164  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

and  meant  to  get  there  or  die  in  the  attempt; 
that  we  did  not  fear  them, —  the  white  man's  God 
would  take  care  of  us;  and  that  if  that  was  all 
they  had  to  talk  about,  he  could  go  back  and  tell 
his  party  they  could  begin  the  fight  again  as 
soon  as  they  pleased. 

"He  started  back,  and  before  he  had  reached 
the  creek  they  came  out  and  met  him,  had  a  con- 
fab, and  then  began  the  attack  on  us  at  once.  We 
made  each  of  our  four  loads  tell,  and  then  stood 
at  bay,  almost  helpless  and  defenseless :  we  were 
at  the  mercy  of  the  savages,  and  they  understood 
our  situation  as  quickly  as  ourselves. 

"We  were  now  thrown  upon  our  last  resource — 
the  boy's-play  of  throwing  stones.  As  long  as  we 
could  find  detached  pieces  of  rock  they  did  not 
dare  to  make  an  assault,  and  while  we  were  still 
wondering  what  next,  the  white  flag  appeared 
again  and  demanded  another  talk.  We  knew  that 
now  we  had  to  come  to  terms,  and  make  up  our 
minds  to  accept  anything  that  savored  of  reason 
and  our  lives,  trusting  to  the  future  to  escape  if 
they  kept  us  as  prisoners. 

"  '  The  Kiowas  are  not  prisoners,  and  they  know 
brave  men,'  said  the  Indian;  'we  will  not  kill 
you,  though  the  prairie-grass  is  red  with  the  blood 
of  our  warriors  that  have  died  by  your  hands. 


KIT  CARSON'S  PAWNEE  ROCK  STORY         165 

We  will  give  you  a  chance  for  your  lives,  and  let 
you  prove  that  the  Great  Spirit  of  the  white  man 
is  powerful,  and  can  save  you.  Behold,'  said  the 
Indian,  pointing  with  an  arrow  to  a  solitary  cot- 
ton wood  on  the  banks  of  the  Arkansas,  a  mile  or 
more  away,  '  you  must  go  there,  and  one  of  you 
shall  run  the  knife-gauntlet  from  that  tree  two 
hundred  steps  of  the  chief  out  toward  the  prairie. 
If  the  one  who  runs  escapes,  both  are  free,  for  the 
Great  Spirit  has  willed  it.  O-ton-son-e-var  has 
said  it,  and  the  words  of  the  Kiowa  are  true.' 

"  '  When  must  the  trial  take  place  ?  '  said  I. 

"  *  When  the  sun  begins  to  shine  upon  the  west- 
ern edge  of  the  Rock,'  replied  the  Indian. 

"  'Say  to  your  chief  we  accept  the  challenge 
and  will  be  ready,'  said  Bill,  motioning  the  young 
warrior  away.  'I  am  sure  I  can  win,'  said  he, 
'  and  can  save  both  our  lives.  O-ton-son-e-var 
will  keep  his  word — I  know  him.' 

"  '  Bill,'  said  I, '  I  shall  run  that  race,  not  you ; ' 
and  taking  him  by  the  hand  I  told  him  that  if  he 
saw  I  was  going  to  fail,  to  watch  his  chance,  and 
in  the  excitement  of  the  moment  mount  one  of 
their  horses  and  fly  toward  Bent's  Fort ;  he  could 
escape  —  he  was  young;  it  made  no  difference 
with  me — my  life  was  not  worth  much,  but  he 
had  all  before  him. 


106 


TALEB   OF   THE    TRAIL 


"  'No,'  replied  Bill,  'my  heart  is  set  on  this; 
I  traveled  the  same  race  once  before  when  the 
Apaches  got  me,  and  their  knives  never  struck  me 
once.  I  ask  this  favor  as  my  life,  for  I  have  a 
presentiment  that  it  is  only  I  can  win.  I  know 

how  to  get  every  ad- 
vantage of  them.  So 
say  no  more.' 

"The  sun  had 
scarcely  gilded  that 
portion  of  the  dark 
line  of  the  Rock  that 
juts  out  boldly  toward 
the  western  horizon, 
before  all  the  warriors, 
with  O-ton-son-e-var 
at  their  head,  marched 
silently  toward  the 
tree  and  beckoned  us 
to  come. 

"Quickly  we  were  on  the  prairie  beside  them, 
when  they  opened  a  space,  and  we  walked  in  their 
center  without  exchanging  a  word.  There  were 
only  thirty  left  of  that  band  of  sixty  proud  war- 
riors who  had  commenced  the  attack  on  us  the 
day  before,  and  I  could  see  by  the  scowls  with 
which  they  regarded  us,  and  by  the  convulsive 


PACER'S  SON -CHIEF  OF  ALL 
THE   APACHES. 


KIT  c ARSON'S  PAWNEE  ROCK  STORY         167 

clutching  at  their  knives  by  the  younger  ones, 
that  it  was  only  the  presence  and  power  of  O-ton- 
son-e-var  which  prevented  them  from  taking  sum- 
mary vengeance  upon  us. 

"As  soon  as  we  reached  the  tree,  O-ton-son-e-var 
paced  the  two  hundred  steps,  and  arranged  his 
warriors  on  either  side,  who  in  a  moment  stripped 
themselves  to  the  waist,  and  each  seizing  his  long 
scalping-knife,  and  bracing  himself,  held  it  high 
over  his  head,  so  as  to  strike  a  blow  that  would 
carry  it  to  the  hilt  at  once. 

"  The  question  of  who  should  be  their  victim 
was  settled  immediately,  for  as  I  stepped  forward 
to  face  that  narrow  passage  of  probable  death, 
the  chief  signaled  me  back  with  an  impulsive 
gesture  not  to  be  misunderstood,  and  pointing  to 
Bill,  told  him  to  prepare  himself  for  the  bloody 
trial. 

"I  attempted  to  protest,  and  was  urging  my 
most  earnest  words,  when  O-ton-son-e-var  said  he 
had  decided,  and  'the  young  man  must  run,' 
adding  that  '  even  a  drop  of  blood  from  any  one 
of  the  knives  meant  death  to  both.' 

"Each  savage  stood  firm,  with  his  glittering 
blade  reflecting  the  rays  of  the  evening  sun,  and 
on  each  hard  cold  face  a  determination  to  have 
the  heart's  blood  of  their  victim. 


168  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

' '  The  case  seemed  almost  hopeless  —  it  was 
truly  a  race  for  life ;  and  as  Bill  prepared  him- 
self I  wished  ourselves  back  on  the  Rock,  with 
only  as  many  good  bullets  as  the  number  of  red 
devils  who  stood  before  us,  the  very  impersona- 
tion of  all  the  hatred  of  the  detestable  red  man. 

"  How  well  I  remember  the  coolness  and  confi- 
dence of  Bill!  He  could  not  have  been  more 
calm  if  he  had  been  stripping  for  a  foot-race  for 
fun.  He  had  perfect  faith  in  the  result,  and 
when  O-ton-son-e-var  motioned  to  commence  the 
fearful  trial,  Bill  spoke  to  me,  but  I  could  not 
answer — my  grief  was  too  great. 

"He  stripped  to  his  drawers,  and  standing 
there  awaiting  the  signal,  naked  from  the  belt 
up,  he  was  the  picture  of  the  noblest  manhood 
I  ever  saw.  He  tightened  his  belt,  and  stood  for 
a  few  seconds  looking,  with  compressed  lips,  down 
the  double  row  of  savages,  as  they  stood,  face  to 
face,  gloating  on  their  victim.  It  seemed  like  an 
age  to  me,  and  when  the  signal  came  I  was  forced 
by  an  irresistible  power  to  look  upon  the  scene. 

"At  the  instant  Bill  darted  like  a  flash  of 
lightning  from  the  foot  of  the  tree;  on  rushed 
the  devils  with  their  gleaming  blades,  yelling, 
and  crowding  one  another,  and  cutting  at  poor 
Bill  with  all  the  rage  of  their  revengeful  nature. 


KIT  CARSON'S  PAWNEE  BOCK  STORY         169 

But  he  evaded  all  their  horrible  efforts — now 
tossing  a  savage  here  and  another  there,  now  al- 
most creeping  like  a  snake  at  their  feet,  then  like 
a  wildcat  he  would  jump  through  the  line,  dash- 
ing the  knives  out  of  their  hands,  till  at  last, 
with  a  single  spring,  he  passed  almost  twenty  feet 
beyond  the  mark  where  the  chief  stood. 

"We  were  saved,  and  when  the  disappointed 
savages  were  crowding  around  him  I  rushed  in 
and  threw  myself  in  his  arms.  The  chief  mo- 
tioned the  impatient  warriors  away,  and  with 
sullen  footsteps  followed  them. 

"  In  a  few  moments  we  slowly  retraced  our  way 
to  the  Rock,  where,  taking  our  mules,  we  pushed 
on  in  the  direction  of  the  Missouri.  We  camped 
on  the  bank  of  the  Arkansas  that  night,  only  a 
few  miles  from  the  terrible  Rock;  and  while  we 
were  resting  around  our  little  fire  of  buffalo- 
chips,  and  our  animals  were  quietly  nibbling  the 
dried  grass  at  our  feet,  we  could  still  hear  the 
Kiowas  chanting  the  death-song  as  they  buried 
their  lost  warriors  under  the  blackened  sod  of  the 
prairie." 


SHERIDAN'S  BOOST. 


ESS  than  a  third  of 
a  century  ago  the 
western  half  of 
southern  Kansas 
and  the  whole  re- 
gion beyond,  in- 
cluding the  histor- 
ical Washita,  where 
General  Ouster  de- 
feated the  famous 
chief  of  the  Chey- 
ennes,  Black  Kettle, 
was  the  habitat  of 
our  noblest  indige- 
nous bird,  the  wild 
turkey.  The  dense 
woods  bordering  all 
the  streams  were  full  of  them,  for  the  wild  turkey 
makes  his  haunts  in  the  timber. 

Having  visited  that  once  favorite  winter  ren- 
dezvous of  the  Cheyennes  and  Kiowas  during  the 
early  spring,  and  stood  again  on  the  ground  where 

170 


GENERAL  P.  H.  SHERIDAN. 


SHERIDAN'S  BOOST  171 

Sheridan  and  Ouster  in  their  celebrated  campaign 
of  1868-9  BO  effectually  subdued  the  Indians  that 
the  Western  frontier  has  ever  since  been  exempt 
from  their  bloody  raids,  the  recollection  of  many 
exciting  wild-turkey  hunts  by  the  two  incompa- 
rable soldiers  came  vividly  to  my  mind.  I  re- 
member distinctly,  as  if  it  were  but  a  week  since, 
how  during  that  winter  campaign  of  nearly  thirty 
years  ago  the  troops  sent  into  the  field  against 
the  allied  hostile  tribes  subsisted  for  days  on 
wild  turkey  —  luckily  for  them,  too,  as  they 
were  almost  without  a  ration,  and  would  have 
suffered  in  a  greater  degree  than  they  did  but 
for  the  presence  of  great  flocks  of  the  delicious 
birds. 

In  addition  to  the  stern  necessity  of  securing 
them,  shooting  them  under  the  brilliant  mid-con- 
tinent full  moon  that  nowhere  else  shines  more 
intensely,  afforded  an  immense  amount  of  sport 
to  both  officers  and  enlisted  men,  divesting  their 
weary  march  through  that  then  desolate  region  of 
its  terrible  monotony.  General  Sheridan  was  a 
crack  shot,  recognized  as  an  expert  in  pheasant- 
hunting  when  a  young  lieutenant  in  the  wilds  of 
Oregon,  long  before  the  Civil  War,  and  where 
large  game  roamed  in  immense  numbers  through 
the  vast  forests.  Then  the  height  of  the  embryo 


172  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

great  General's  ambition  was  that  he  might  at- 
tain the  rank  of  Major  before  he  died  1 

There  is  a  large  body  of  timber  on  the  North 
Fork  of  the  Canadian  river  in  the  Indian  Ter- 
ritory, about  sixty  miles  directly  south  of  the 
Kansas  line,  known  as  "Sheridan's  Roost" — so 
marked  on  the  maps.  It  was  there  that  General 
Sheridan  with  Ouster  bagged  an  almost  incredible 
number  of  wild  turkeys  while  camping  on  the 
now  historic  spot. 

It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  one  of  the  last  days 
in  the  month  of  December,  1868,  when  the  tired 
command  found  itself  encamped  very  near  an  im- 
mense turkey  roo'st.  Both  Sheridan  and  Ouster, 
as  soon  as  they  had  dismounted  from  their  horses, 
made  the  fortuitous  discovery  and  grasped  the 
important  situation:  an  abundance  of  food  for 
the  half-etarved  troopers  and  a  relief  to  the  ennui 
and  tiresome  routine  of  the  monotonous  march 
through  the  seemingly  interminable  sand-dunes 
so  frequent  in  that  region. 

In  order  that  the  necessities  of  the  command 
and  the  anticipated  sport  might  not  be  thwarted 
by  a  general  firing  of  the  rank  and  file  tinder  the 
excitement  natural  to  the  average  soldier,  Sheri- 
dan immediately  issued  an  order  that  no  one — 
officer,  enlisted  man,  or  civilian  —  should  leave 


SHERIDAN'S  ROOST  178 

camp  without  his  permission.  He  was  well  aware 
of  the  fact  that  if  any  prowling  around  was  al- 
lowed, the  now  absent  birds  would  not  return  to 
their  accustomed  resting-place  when  night  came 
on. 

The  whole  command  was  restless,  anxious  and 
impatient  for  hours,  waiting  for  the  seemingly 
tardy  sun  to  set.  At  last,  after  two  hours  of  sus- 
pense, the  fading  rays  began  to  gild  the  summits 
of  the  low  range  of  hills  west  of  the  camp.  Then, 
just  as  the  twilight  curve  reached  the  horizon,  the 
General,  with  Ouster  and  several  other  officers 
whom  he  had  chosen  as  companions,  left  their 
camp-fire  of  blazing  logs  and  sauntered  slowly 
into  the  thick  woods  where  it  had  been  discovered 
early  in  the  afternoon  that  the  coveted  birds  were 
in  the  habit  of  congregating  to  roost. 

Arriving  at  the  very  center  of  the  vast  sleeping- 
place,  at  the  suggestion  of  General  Ouster  each 
gentleman  took  a  position  on  the  ground,  sepa- 
rated from  each  other  some  distance,  to  watch 
from  their  individual  vantage-point  until  the 
moment  should  come  for  the  birds  to  seek  their 
accustomed  resting-place. 

They  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  Before  it  had 
grown  fairly  dark,  two  or  three  flocks  containing 
at  least  two  hundred  of  the  bronzed  beauties  came 


174  TALES   OF   THE   TRAIL 

walking  stealthily  down  the  sheltered  ravines 
leading  out  into  the  broad  bottom  where  the  great 
trees  stood  in  aggregated  clumps,  under  whose 
shadows  General  Sheridan  had  first  observed  the 
unmistakable  signs  of  a  vast  roost.  At  the  head  of 
each  flock,  as  it  unsuspiciously  advanced,  strutted 
a  magnificent  male  bird  in  all  the  arrogance  of  his 
leadership,  and  on  whose  bronzed  plumage  the 
soft  full  moon  which  had  just  risen,  glinted  like  a 
calcium  light  as  its  golden  rays  sifted  through  the 
interstices  of  the  bare  limbs  of  the  winter-garbed 
forest. 

When  the  leader  had  arrived  at  the  spot  where 
his  charge  had  been  accustomed  to  roost,  he  sud- 
denly halted,  glanced  all  around  him  for  a  few 
seconds,  then  seemingly  satisfied  that  everything 
was  right,  he  gave  the  signal — a  sharp,  quick, 
shrill  whistle.  At  that  instant  every  bird  with 
one  accord  and  a  tremendous  fluttering  of  wings, 
raised  itself  and  alighted  in  the  loftiest  branches 
of  the  tallest  trees. 

In  a  few  moments  more,  many  more  flocks  ar- 
rived and  went  through  exactly  the  same  evolutions 
as  the  first  two,  when,  having  settled  themselves 
for  an  undisturbed  slumber,  General  Sheridan 
gave  the  word  for  the  slaughter  to  begin.  Each 
officer  then  began  to  shoot  on  his  own  account, 


SHERIDAN'S  BOOST  175 

and  the  turkeys  fell  like  the  leaves  in  October. 
The  stupid  birds  not  killed  at  the  first  fusillade 
did  not  seem  to  have  sense  enough  to  get  out  of 
harm's  way:  they  flew  from  tree  to  tree  at  every 
shot,  persistently  remaining  in  the  immediate 
vicinity  of  their  roost  with  all  the  characteristic 
idiocy  of  a  sage-hen,  which,  according  to  my  ob- 
servation, has  less  sense  than  any  other  bird  that 
flies. 

It  was  soon  time  that  all  honest  men  whether 
"in  camp  or  court"  were  in  bed,  but  the  two 
famous  generals  and  their  companions,  so  excit- 
ing was  the  rare  sport,  did  not  leave  until  the 
moon  was  far  down  the  western  horizon. 

They  then  returned  to  the  friendly  fires  near 
their  tents  and  counted  the  number  of  birds  which 
had  fallen  under  the  accurate  aim  of  those  en- 
gaged. It  was  discovered  they  had  bagged  nearly 
a  hundred  of  the  magnificent  bronzed  creatures, 
of  which  Sheridan  had  killed  the  lion's  share. 

From  that  midnight  incident  in  the  beginning 
of  that  eventful  winter  on  the  Great  Plains, 
"Sheridan's  Roost"  received  its  name;  the  spot 
became  classic,  and  will  go  down  to  the  genera- 
tions yet  unborn  with  its  suggestive  title. 

Although  the  majority  of  the  birds  stuck  to  the 
vicinity  of  their  roost,  yet  continually  slangh- 


176  TALES    OF   THE   TRAIL 

tered  by  the  unerring  rifles  of  the  officers,  appear- 
ing to  be  too  senseless  to  avert  their  doom  by 
flying  off,  some,  however,  did  go  recklessly  into 
the  very  camp  of  the  troopers.  The  picket-line 
had  long  since  been  stretched,  and  preparations 
for  the  men's  evening  meal,  scanty  as  it  was  to 
be,  were  fairly  under  way.  But  the  cooks,  ex- 
pecting that  some  of  the  birds  would,  frightened 
as  they  evidently  were  by  the  deadly  shots  of  the 
officers,  fly  into  camp  in  their  bewilderment,  were 
a  little  slow  and  perfunctory,  anticipating  that 
the  bill  of  fare,  that  night  at  least,  would  vary 
materially  from  the  customary  horse-meat  and 
hard-tack.  ' 

Sure  enough,  several  large  flocks  "rounded  up  " 
in  full  view  of  the  command  just  as  the  firing 
commenced.  It  was  a  curious  as  well  as  a  re- 
markable scene  to  watch  the  evident  surprise  and 
discomfiture  of  the  birds  to  discover  the  whole 
ground  usurped  by  the  soldiers ;  they  were  bewil- 
dered beyond  the  power  of  description.  They 
stood  still  for  a  few  moments  seemingly  para- 
lyzed, but  as  other  flocks  began  to  enter  the  camp, 
all  in  the  quickest  imaginable  time  flew  into  the 
tallest  trees.  At  this  juncture  every  soldier  was 
seized  with  a  desire  to  shoot,  and  a  fusillade  be- 
gan right  there,  resulting  in  tumbling  off  the 


SHERIDAN 'fi    ROOST  177 

huge  limbs  fifty  or  more  of  the  crazed  birds.  Of 
course,  the  remainder  were  driven  away  from 
their  roost,  until  the  very  air  was  black  with  the 
alarmed  and  bewildered  turkeys. 

As  the  dark  night  came  011,  not  knowing  where 
to  go,  and  failing  to  seek  another  quiet  roosting- 
place,  back  they  all  came,  but  in  increased  num- 
bers, evidently  determined  to  roost  there  or 
nowhere.  The  air  was  filled  and  the  ground  cov- 
ered with  wild  turkeys.  They  were  dazed  at  the 
turn  affairs  had  taken,  and  great  flocks  ran,  be- 
wildered, right  among  the  soldiers  and  wagons  of 
the  supply  train.  Then  was  a  scene  enacted  euch 
as  perhaps  was  never  before  witnessed,  nor  has 
it  since,  in  all  probability.  All  the  dogs  in  the 
command — and  there  was  every  breed  and  every 
size  in  the  camp,  for  the  average  American  soldier 
loves  a'  dog  and  keeps  as  many  as  he  can — joined 
in  the  pandemonium  that  ensued  in  the  chase 
after  the  frightened  birds,  accompanied  by  a 
fusillade  which  in.  point  of  rapidity  and  volume 
of  noise  would  have  done  credit  to  a  corps  in  a 
general  engagement. 

Some  casualties  occurred,  of  course,  but  no  lives 
were  lost  save  that  of  a  horse,  under  the  follow- 
ing circumstances:  One  of  the  troopers  of  the 
Nineteenth  Kansas  Cavalry,  who  was  in  the  act 
—12 


178 


TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 


of  leading  his  animal  to  the  picket-line  at  the 
height  of  the  chase,  was  somewhat  astonished  to 
find  that  his  faithful  beast  failed  to  respond  to 
the  tugging  at  his  halter-strap  as  he  endeavored 
to  bring  him  to  the  stretched  rope,  and  looking 
around  to  discover  the  cause,  the  excited  trooper 
saw  the  unfortunate  animal  on  the  ground,  dead, 
having  been  instantly  killed  by  an  erratic  ball  I 

There  was  gr^at  feasting  in  the  command  that 
night.  Never  did  turkey  taste  so  delicious  as  did 
the  magnificent  birds  served  in  every  conceivable 
style  at  that  late  meal  in  camp  on  the  classic 
Washita,  to  the  half -famished  soldiers  of  the 
famous  Seventh  Cavalry  and  the  gallant  boys  of 
the  Kansas  regiment. 


THE   PASSING  OP  THE   BUFFALO. 


O  the  old  trapper  and 
hunter  of  the  palmy 
days  of  '68  and  '70, 
I  dedicate  this  chap- 
ter. That  time  is 
now  faded  into  the 
past,  and  so  far  faded, 
indeed,  that  the  pres- 
ent generation  knows 
not  its  sympathy  nor 
its  sentiment. 

The  buffalo  —  as 
my  thoughts  turn  to 
the  past,  the  memory 
of  their  "age"  (if  I 
may  so  call  it)  crowds 

upon  me.  I  remember  when  the  eye  could  not 
measure  their  numbers.  I  saw  a  herd  delay  a 
railroad  train  from  9  o'clock  in  the  morning  until 
6  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Countless  millions, 
divided  by  its  leaders  and  captains  like  an  im- 
mense arniy!  How  many  millions  there  were, 

170 


180  TALES   OF   THE    TRAIL 

none  could  guess.  On  each  side  of  us,  and  as  far 
as  we  could  see  —  our  vision  was  limited  only  by 
the  extended  horizon  of  the  flat  prairie — the 
whole  vast  area  was  black  with  the  surging  mass 
of  affrighted  animals,  as  they  rushed  onward  to 
the  south  in  a  mad  stampede. 

At  another  time  Gens.  Sheridan,  Ouster,  Sully, 
and  myself  rode  through  another  and  larger  one, 
for  three  consecutive  days.  This  was  in  the  fall 
of  1868.  It  seems  almost  impossible  to  those  who 
have  seen  them,  as  numerous  apparently  as  the 
sands  of  the  seashore,  feeding  on  the  illimitable 
natural  pasturage  of  the  Great  Plains,  that  the 
buffalo  should  have  become  practically  extinct. 
When  I  look  back  only  twenty-five  years  and  re- 
call the  fact  that  they  swarmed  in  countless  num- 
bers even  then  as  far  east  as  Fort  Harker,  only 
200  miles  west  from  the  Missouri  river,  I  ask  my- 
self, "Have  they  all  disappeared?"  And  yet, 
such  is  the  fact.  Two  causes  can  be  assigned  for 
this  great  hecatomb :  First,  the  demand  for  fheir 
hides,  which  brought  about  a  great  invasion  of 
hunters  into  this  region ;  and  second,  the  crowds 
of  thoughtless  tourists  who  crossed  the  continent 
for  the  mere  novelty  and  pleasure  of  the  trip. 
This  latter  class  heartlessly  killed  for  the  excite- 
ment of  the  new  experience  as  they  rode  along  in 


THK    PASSING   OF   THK    BUFFALO  181 

the  cars  at  a  low  rate  of  speed,  ofteii  never  touch- 
ing a  particle  of  the  flesh  of  their  victims,  or 
possessing  themselves  of  a  single  robe. 

The  former,  numbering  hundreds  of  old  fron- 
tiersmen, all  expert  shots,  with  thousands  of 
novices,  the  pioneer  settlers  on  the  public  do- 
main, day  after  day  for  years  made  it  a  lucrative 
business  to  kill  for  the  robes  alone,  a  market 
for  which  had  suddenly  sprung  up  all  over  the 
country. 

The  beginning  of  the  end  was  marked  by  the 
completion  of  the  Kansas  Pacific  across  the  Plains 
to  the  foot-hills  of  the  Rockies  in  1868,  this  being 
the  western  limit  of  the  buffalo  range. 

In  1872  a  writer  in  " The  Buffalo  Land  "  said: 

"  Probably  the  most  cruel  of  all  bison-shooting 
pastime  is  that  of  firing  from  the  cars.  During 
certain  periods  in  the  spring  and  fall,  when  the 
large  herds  are  crossing  the  Kansas  Pacific  Rail- 
road, the  trains  run  for  a  hundred  miles  or  more 
among  countless  thousands  of  the  shaggy  mon- 
archs  of  the  Plains.  The  bison  has  a  strange  and 
entirely  unaccountable  instinct  or  habit  which 
leads  it  to  attempt  crossing  in  front  of  any  mov- 
ing object  near  it.  It  frequently  happened,  in  the 
time  of  the  old  stages,  that  the  driver  had  to  rein 
up  his  horses  until  the  herd  which  he  had*6tarted 


182  TALKS    OF    THK    TRAIT, 

had  crossed  the  road  ahead  of  him.  To  accom- 
plish this  feat,  if  the  object  of  their  fright  was 
moving  rapidly,  the  animals  would  often  run  for 
miles. 

"When  the  iron  horse  comes  rushing  into  their 
solitudes,  and  Biiorting  out  his  fierce  alarms,  the 
herds,  though  perhaps  half  a  mile  from  his  path, 
will  lift  their  heads  and  gaze  intently  for  a  few 
minutes  toward  the  object  thus  approaching  them 
with  a  roar  which  causes  the  earth  to  tremble, 
and  enveloped  in  a  white  cloud  that  streams  fur- 
ther and  higher  than  the  dust  of  the  old  stage- 
coach ever  did ;  and  then,  having  determined  its 
course,  instead  of  fleeing  back  to  the  distant  val- 
leys, away  they  go,  charging  over  the  ridge  across 
which  the  iron  rails  lie,  apparently  determined  to 
cross  in  front  of  the  locomotive  at  all  hazards. 
The  rate  per  mile  of  the  passenger  trains  is  slow 
upon  the  Plains,  and  hence  it  often  happens  that 
the  cars  and  buffaloes  will  be  side  by  side  for  a 
mile  or  two,  the  brutes  abandoning  the  effort  to 
cross  only  when  their  foe  has  emerged  entirely 
ahead.  During  these  races  the  car  windows  are 
opened,  and  numerous  breech-loaders  fling  hun- 
dreds of  bullets  among  the  densely  crowded  and 
fast-flying  masses.  Many  of  the  poor  animals 
fall,  and  more  go  off  to  die  in  the  ravines.  The 


THK    PASSING    OF    THK    BUFFALO  183 

train  speeds  on,  and  the  act  is  repeated  every  few 
miles  until  Buffalo  Land  is  passed." 

Almost  with  prophetic  eye  he  continued : 

11  Let  this  slaughter  continue  for  ten  years, 
and  the  bison  of  the  American  continent  will  be- 
come extinct.  The  number  of  valuable  robes  and 
pounds  of  meat  which  would  thus  be  lost  to  us 
and  posterity,  will  run  too  far  into  the  millions 
to  be  easily  calculated.  All  over  the  Plains, 
lying  in  disgusting  masses  of  putrefaction  along 
valley  and  hill,  are  strewn  immense  carcasses  of 
wantonly  slain  buffalo.  They  line  the  Kansas 
Pacific  road  for  two  hundred  miles." 

A  great  herd  of  buffaloes  on  the  Plains  in  the 
early  days,  when  one  could  approach  near  enough 
without  disturbing  it  to  quietly  watch  its  organi- 
zation, and  the  apparent  discipline  which  its  lead- 
ers seemed  to  exact,  was  a  very  curious  sight. 
Among  the  striking  features  of  the  spectacle  was 
the  apparently  uniform  manner  in  which  the 
immense  mass  of  shaggy  animals  moved;  there 
was  constancy  of  action  indicating  a  degree  of 
intelligence  to  be  found  only  in  the  most  "intel- 
ligent of  the  brute  creation.  Frequently  the 
larger  herd  was  broken  up  into  many  smaller 
ones,  that  traveled  relatively  close  together,  each 


184  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

led  by  an  independent  master.  Perhaps  only  a 
few  rods  marked  the  dividing-line  between  them, 
but  it  was  always  unmistakably  plain,  and  each 
moved  synchronously  in  the  direction  in  which 
all  were  going. 

The  leadership  of  the  herd  was  attained  only  by 
hard  struggles  for  the  place ;  once  reached,  how- 
ever, the  victor  waa  immediately  recognized,  and 
kept  his  authority  until  some  new  aspirant  over- 
came him,  or  he  became  superannuated  and  was 
driven  out  of  the  herd  to  meet  his  inevitable  fate, 
a  prey  to  those  ghouls  of  the  desert,  the  gray 
wolves.  * 

In  the  event  of  a  stampede,  every  animal  of  the 
separate  yet  consolidated  herds  rushed  off  together, 
as  if  all  had  gone  mad  at  once ;  for  the  buffalo, 
like  the  Texas  steer,  mule,  or  domestic  horse,  stam- 
pedes on  the  slightest  provocation — frequently 
without  any  assignable  cause.  Sometimes  the  sim- 
plest affair  will  start  the  whole  herd :  a  prairie- 
dog  barking  at  the  entrance  of  his  burrow,  a 
shadow  of  one  of  themselves  or  that  of  a  passing 
cloud,  is  sufficient  to  make  them  run  for  miles  as 
if  a  real  and  dangerous  enemy  were  at  their  heels. 

Stampedes  were  a  great  source  of  profit  to  the 
Indians  of  the  Plains.  The  Comanches  were  par- 
ticularly expert  and  daring  in  this  kind  of  rob- 


THE   PASSING  OF   THE   BUFFALO  185 

bery.  They  even  trained  their  horses  to  run  from 
one  point  to  another,  in  expectation  of  the  coming 
of  the  wagon  trains  on  the  trail.  When  a  camp 
was  made  that  was  nearly  in  range,  they  turned 
their  trained  animals  loose,  which  at  once  flew 
across  the  prairie,  passing  through  the  herd  and 
penetrating  the  very  corrals  of  their  victims.  All 
of  the  picketed  horses  and  mules  would  endeavor 
to  follow  these  decoys,  and  were  invariably  led 
right  into  the  haunts  of  the  Indians,  who  easily 
secured  them.  Young  horses  and  mules  were 
easily  frightened;  and  in  the  confusion  which 
generally  ensued,  great  injury  was  frequently 
done  to  the  runaways  themselves. 

At  times  when  the  herd  was  very  large,  the 
horses  scattered  over  the  prairie  and  were  irrevo- 
cably lost ;  and  such  as  did  not  become  wild  fell 
a  prey  to  the  wolves.  That  fate  was  very  fre- 
quently the  lot  of  stampeded  horses  bred  in  the 
States,  they  not  having  been  trained  by  a  prairie 
life  to  care  for  themselves.  Instead  of  stopping 
and  bravely  fighting  off  the  bloodthirsty  beasts, 
they  would  run.  Then  the  whole  pack  were  sure 
to  leave  the  bolder  animals  and  make  for  the  run- 
aways, which  they  seldom  failed  to  overtake  and 
dispatch. 

Like  an  army,  a  herd  of  buffaloes  put  out  ve- 


186  TALES   OP   THE   TBAIL 

dettes  to  give  the  alarm  in  case  anything  beyond 
the  ordinary  occurred.  These  sentinels  were  al- 
ways to  be  seen  in  groups  of  four,  five,  or  even 
six,  at  some  distance  from  the  main  body.  When 
they  saw  something  approaching  that  the  herd 
should  beware  of  or  get  away  from,  they  started 
on  the  run  directly  for  the  center  of  the  great 
mass  of  their  peacefully  grazing  congeners.  Mean- 
while, the  young  bulls  were  on  duty  as  sentinels  on 
the  edge  of  the  main  herd,  watching  the  vedettes ; 
the  moment  the  latter  made  for  the  center,  the 
former  raised  their  heads,  and  in  the  peculiar 
manner  of  their  species  gazed  all  around  and 
sniffed  the  air  a's  if  they  could  smell  both  the 
danger  and  its  direction.  Should  there  be  some- 
thing which  their  instinct  told  them  to  guard 
against,  the  leader  took  his  position  in  front,  the 
cows  and  calves  crowded  in  the  center,  while  the 
rest  of  the  males  gathered  on  the  flanks  and  in 
the  rear,  indicating  a  gallantry  that  might  be 
imitated  at  times  by  the  genus  homo. 

Generally,  buffalo  went  to  their  driuking-place 
but  once  a  day,  and  that  late  in  the  afternoon. 
Then  they  ambled  along,  following  each  other  in 
single  file,  which  accounts  for  the  many  trails  on 
the  Plains,  always  ending  at  some  stream  or  lake. 
They  frequently  traveled  twenty  or  thirty  miles 


THE   PASSING   OF   THE    BUFFALO  187 

for  water;  so  the  trails  leading  to  it  were  often 
worn  to  the  depth  of  a  foot  or  more. 

That  curious  depression  so  frequently  seen  on 
the  Great  Plains,  called  a  "buffalo  wallow,"  is 
caused  in  this  wise :  The  huge  animals  paw  and 
lick  the  salty,  alkaline  earth,  and  when  once  the 
sod  is  broken  the  loose  soil  drifts  away  under  the 
constant  action  of  the  wind.  Then,  year  after 
year,  through  more  pawing,  licking,  rolling  and 
wallowing  by  the  animals,  the  wind  wafts  more 
of  the  soil  away,  and  soon  there  is  a  considerable 
hole  in  the  prairie. 

Many  an  old  trapper  and  hunter's  life  has  been 
saved  by  following  a  buffalo  trail  when  he  was 
suffering  from  thirst.  The  buffalo  wallows  usu- 
ally retain  a  great  quantity  of  water,  and  they 
have  often  saved  the  lives  of  whole  companies  of 
cavalry,  both  men  and  horses. 

There  was,  however,  a  stranger  and  more  won- 
derful spectacle  to  be  seen  every  recurring  spring 
during  the  reign  of  the  buffalo,  soon  after  the 
grass  had  started.  There  were  circles  trodden 
bare  on  the  Plains,  thousands  —  yes,  millions — 
of  them,  which  the  early  travelers,  who  did  not 
divine  their  cause,  called  "fairy  rings."  From 
the  first  of  April  until  the  middle  of  May  was  the 
wet  season ;  you  could  depend  upon  its  recurrence 


188  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

almost  as  certainly  as  on  the  sun  and  moon  rising 
at  the  proper  time.  This  was  also  the  calving 
period  of  the  buffalo,  as  they,  unlike  our  domestic 
animals,  only  rutted  during  a  single  month ;  con- 
sequently the  cows  all  calved  during  a  certain 
time;  this  was  the  wet  month,  and  as  there  were 
a  great  many  gray  wolves  that  roamed  singly  or 
in  immense  packs  over  the  whole  prairie  region, 
the  bulls,  in  their  regular  beats,  kept  guard  over 
the  cows  while  in  the  act  of  parturition,  and 
drove  the  wolves  away,  walking  in  a  ring  around 
the  females  at  a  short  distance,  and  thus  forming 
the  curious  circle^. 

In  every  herd  at  each  recurring  season  there 
were  always  ambitious  young  bulls  that  came  to 
their  majority,  so  to  speak,  and  these  were  ever 
ready  to  test  their  claims  for  the  leadership;  so 
that  it  may  be  safely  stated  that  a  month  rarely 
passed  without  a  bloody  battle  between  them  for 
the  supremacy — though,  strangely  enough,  the 
struggle  seldom  resulted  in  the  death  of  either 
combatant. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  animal  in  which  maternal 
love  is  more  strongly  developed  than  in  the  buf- 
falo cow ;  she  is  as  dangerous  with  a  calf  by  her 
side  as  a  she-grizzly  with  cubs. 

The  buffalo  bull  that  has  outlived  his  usefulness 


THE    PASSING   OF   THE    BUFFALO  189 

is  one  of  the  most  pitiable  objects  in  the  whole 
range  of  natural  history.  Old  age  has  probably 
been  decided  in  the  economy  of  buffalo  life  as  the 
unpardonable  sin.  Abandoned  to  his  fate,  he  may 
be  discovered  in  his  dreary  isolation,  near  some 
stream  or  lake,  where  it  does  not  tax  him  too  se- 
verely to  find  good  grass;  for  he  is  now  feeble, 
and  exertion  an  impossibility.  In  this  new  stage 
of  his  existence  he  seems  to  have  completely  lost 
his  courage.  Frightened  at  his  own  shadow,  or 
the  rustling  of  a  leaf,  he  is  the  very  incarnation 
of  nervousness  and  suspicion.  Gregarious  in  his 
habits  from  birth,  solitude,  foreign  to  his  whole 
nature,  has  changed  him  into  a  new  creature; 
and  his  inherent  terror  of  the  most  trivial  things 
is  intensified  to  such  a  degree  that  if  a  man  were 
compelled  to  undergo  such  constant  alarm,  it 
would  probably  drive  him  insane  in  less  than  a 
week.  Nobody  ever  saw  one  of  these  miserable 
and  forlorn  creatures  dying  a  natural  death,  or 
even  heard  of  such  an  occurrence.  The  cowardly 
coyote  and  the  gray  wolf  had  already  marked 
him  for  their  own ;  and  they  rarely  missed  their 
calculations. 

Rising  suddenly  to  the  top  of  a  divide  with  a 
party  of  friends  in  1866,  we  saw  standing  below 
us  in  the  valley  an  old  buffalo  bull,  the  very  pic- 


190  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

ture  of  despair.  Surrounding  him  were  seven  gray 
wolves  in  the  act  of  challenging  him  to  mortal 
combat.  The  poor  beast,  undoubtedly  realizing 
the  hopelessness  of  his  situation,  had  determined 
to  die  game.  His  great  shaggy  head,  filled  with 
burrs,  was  lowered  to  the  ground  as  he  confronted 
his  would-be  executioners ;  his  tongue,  black  and 
parched,  lolled  out  of  his  mouth,  and  he  gave 
utterance  at  intervals  to  a  suppressed  roar. 

The  wolves  were  sitting  on  their  haunches  in  a 
semicircle  immediately  in  front  of  the  tortured 
beast,  and  every  time  that  the  fear-stricken  buf- 
falo gave  vent  to  his  hoarsely  modulated  groan, 
the  wolves  howled  in  concert  in  most  mournful 
cadence. 

After  contemplating  his  antagonists  for  a  few 
moments,  the  bull  made  a  dash  at  the  nearest 
wolf,  tumbling  him  howling  over  the  silent  prai- 
rie; but  while  this  diversion  was  going  on  in 
front,  the  remainder  of  the  pack  started  for  his 
hind  legs  to  hamstring  him.  Upon  this  the  poor 
beast  turned  to  the  point  of  attack,  only  to  receive 
a  repetition  of  it  in  the  same  vulnerable  place  by 
the  wolves,  who  had  as  quickly  turned  also  and 
fastened  themselves  on  his  heels  again.  His  hind 
quarters  now  streamed  with  blood,  and  he  began 
to  show  signs  of  great  physical  weakness.  He  did 


THE    PASSING    OP    THE    BUFFALO 


191 


not  dare  to  lie  down;  that  would  have  been  in- 
stantly fatal.  By  this  time  he  had  killed  three 
of  the  wolves,  or  so  maimed  them  that  they  were 
entirely  out  of  the  fight. 

At  this  juncture  the  suffering  animal  was  merci- 
fully shot,  and  the  wolves  allowed  to  batten  on 
his  thin  and  tough  carcass. 


JUDGE    LYNCH'S   COURT  AT  WHOOPING 
HOLLOW. 


HOOPING  HOLLOW  is 
the  uneuphonious  name 
of  a  mining  camp  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  Taos 
Range  —  or  rather,  was, 
for  it  has  been  expunged 
from  the  map  these 
twenty-five  years,  and 
but  few  of  the  present 
generation  in  New  Mexico 
are  aware  that  such  a 
place  ever  existed.  It 
was  almost  inaccessible, 
so  awfully  abrupt  and 
broken  were  the  bare 
granite  ridges  surroiiiid- 
ing  it,  out  of  which  the 
circumscribed  valley  in 
which  the  town  lay 
seemed  to  have  been  literally  scooped  when  the 

rocks  were  plastic  —  Titanic   hands   holding  the 

102 


JUDGE  LYNCH'B  COURT  198 

scraper,  and  the  lightning  the  propelling  power. 
How  the  place  received  its  strange  appellation 
was  a  mystery  even  to  the  majority  of  the  miners 
who  worked  there  for  nearly  five  years  with'  picks, 
shovels,  long-toms,  sluices,  and  other  appliances 
for  extracting  the  ore  from  the  refractory  rock. 
The  quantity  of  the  precious  metals  shipped  dur- 
ing that  period  made  the  camp  famous,  and  re- 
sulted in  building  up  a  town  of  rude  shanties  and 
dugouts  which  at  the  height  of  its  prosperity 
numbered  over  twelve  hundred  souls.  But  you 
cannot  find  Whooping  Hollow  on  any  modern 
map,  for  it  played  out  in  less  than  six  years  from 
the  date  of  the  discovery  of  gold  there;  though 
several  fortunes  were  mined  in  that  time,  and 
made  by  traffic  the  specialty  of  which  was  bad 
whisky. 

There  was  a  legend  current  in  the  early  days  of 
the  valley's  occupancy,  that  was  honestly  believed 
in,  which  affirmed  that  the  first  party  of  pros- 
pectors, consisting  of  four  or  five  men,  all  Ten- 
nesseeans,  who  entered  the  great  canon  in  their 
search,  were  rewarded  well  for  their  pains,  finding 
plenty  of  water,  game,  fuel,  together  with  other 
necessaries  in  the  prosecution  of  their  vocation  — 
a  beautiful  place  for  their  camp,  lots  of  silver, 
and  gold  in  paying  quantities — were  scared  out 
—  13 


194  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

of  the  gulch  (to  which  they  never  returned)  by 
an  unearthly  screeching,  seemingly  emanating 
from  a  human  throat.  Its  ghostly  owner,  they 
declared,  visited  their  camp  every  night  about  11 
o'clock,  and  on  the  top  of  a  timbered  knoll,  where 
they  could  plainly  see  it  as  the  moonlight  sifted 
through  the  scattered  pinons  and  dwarfed  cedars, 
took  its  stand,  setting  up  its  blood-curdling  cries, 
which  it  continued  with  short  intervals  of  cessa- 
tion, until  daybreak.  Those  men,  it  was  alleged, 
were  a  very  ignorant  and  superstitious  set,  who, 
after  three  nights  of  their  weird  experience,  could 
bear  it  no  longer,  and  were  absolutely  driven  away 
through  fright. 

Of  course  they  told  others  of  their  rich  strike, 
not  forgetting  to  mention  the  "hant"  of  the 
place,  as  they  called  it;  but  these  others,  old 
mountaineers,  not  fearing  any  disturbance  from 
the  moonlight  specter,  went  there,  established 
their  camp  —  to  which  hundreds  soon  flocked — 
calling  it  Whooping  Hollow,  in  derision  of  the 
tale  told  by  the  alarmed  Tennesseeans ;  which 
name  it  retained  during  its  whole  existence,  and 
was  known  and  recognized  by  that  as  a  postoffice 
on  the  mail  records  in  Washington. 

In  all  probability  what  the  men  really  heard 
was  the  mottled  or  American  screech-owl,  which 


JUDGE  LYNCH 'S  COURT  195 

makes  a  plaintive  noise,  and  a  peculiar  sound 
during  part  of  its  mournful  notes,  like  the  chat- 
tering of  teeth,  keeping  up  its  alternating  whoop- 
ing and  moaning  all  night.  It  loves  to  perch  on 
some  blasted  tree  in  the  moonlight,  and  the  dis- 
embodied form  seen  by  the  superstitious  miners 
must  have  been  a  shattered  and  denuded  pirion, 
on  which  the  nocturnal  bird  sat,  that,  escaping 
their  vision  in  the  daytime,  was  exaggerated  by 
their  frightened  eyes  at  night  into  the  "  hant "  of 
the  place! — But  this  is  not  a  ghost  story,  and  the 
reader  will  pardon  the  digression. 

The  region  in  which  Whooping  Hollow  was  situ- 
ated is  the  roughest,  and,  to  employ  a  mining 
phrase,  the  "  lumpiest "  portion  of  the  whole  Taos 
range.  It  is  a  deep  gulch  in  the  strictest  inter- 
pretation of  the  word,  formed  by  two  lofty  divides, 
whose  crests  tower  skyward  from  their  bases  more 
than  8,000  feet,  which  themselves  are  over  5,000 
feet  above  the  Atlantic's  level,  and  the  distance 
across  the  narrow  valley  at  its  widest  part  scarcely 
three-quarters  of  a  mile.  The  angle  of  the  slope 
of  the  two  opposing  mountains  is  a  little  less  than 
85  degrees,  making  their  sides,  as  maybe  inferred, 
very  precipitous. 

The  town's  era  of  prosperity  was  long  before  the 
days  of  railroads  in  that  portion  of  the  continent, 


196  TALEB    OF    THE    TRAIL 

and  such  feats  of  engineering  as  have  been  accom- 
plished since  in  the  way  of  "hog-backs,"  loops 
and  tunnels  were  not  dreamed  of  as  among  the 
possibilities  of  mountain  travel.  Nor  was  there 
even  a  wagon-road  to  Whooping  Hollow.  Such  a 
thing  would  have  been  regarded  equally  as  diffi- 
cult and  expensive  as  the  wonderful  achievement 
of  the  Atchison,  Topeka  &  Santa  Fe  in  climbing 
the  Eaton  Range  a  dozen  years  later.  Everything 
was  ' '  packed ' '  into  the  place  on  muleback,  at  a 
minimum  cost  of  twenty -five  cents  a  pound, 
whether  the  simplest  necessaries  of  life  or  a  saw- 
mill, and  the  zig-zag  trail  the  sure-footed  beasts 
were  compelled  *to  travel  up  and  down  the  fearful 
slopes  of  the  great  divides  to  get  in  and  out  of  the 
rocky  streets  of  the  narrow  town,  made  one  dizzy 
to  look  at. 

The  rude  collection  of  shanties,  through  cour- 
tesy called  the  town  of  Whooping  Hollow,  was 
built  on  one  side  of  a  little  creek  which  ran  at  a 
fearful  rate  in  the  bottom  of  the  gulch,  whose 
waters,  boiling  and  foaming,  like  all  mountain 
streams,  rushed  over  and  around  the  immense 
bowlders  with  which  its  narrow  bed  was  choked ; 
while  on  the  opposite  side,  immediately  facing 
the  principal  street,  extending  for  miles  both 
ways,  on  the  hill,  the  mining  claims  were  located. 


JUDGE  LYNCH'S  COURT  197 

The  houses  were  in  most  instances  mere  shells, 
constructed  of  rough  slabs ;  while  a  few  were  of 
hewn  logs,  presenting  a  relatively  neat  appear- 
ance. The  roofs  of  all,  however,  were  flat,  and 
covered  with  earth ;  they  rose  one  above  the  other 
like  a  flight  of  stairs,  so  that  one  could  easily 
step  out  of  his  door  upon  the  top  of  his  neighbor's 
dwelling  below,  so  precipitous  was  the  side  of  the 
mountain  on  which  the  place  was  of  necessity  laid 
out.  The  town  consisted  of  four  streets — one 
devoted  entirely  to  business,  the  other  three  to 
residences  only.  There  were  five  stores,  whose 
stock  was  of  that  character  known  throughout 
the  West  and  in  the  mountains  as  "general." 
That  is,  their  proprietors  almost  literally  kept 
everything,  from  a  toothpick  to  a  steam  engine, 
or  from  a  shoestring  to  a  silk  dress.  The  place 
boasted  also  of  twelve  banks  —  of  deposit  only  — 
faro  and  moiite;  for  the  unfortunate  individual 
who  once  laid  his  money  on  the  green-cloth  tables 
of  these  institutions  rarely  saw  any  of  it  again : 
it  was  permanently  invested!  Of  saloons,  too, 
Whooping  Hollow  had  its  full  complement — I 
think  there  were  thirty  at  one  time;  and  their 
owners  were  not  obliged  to  contribute  anything 
to  the  support  of  the  town,  for  as  to  municipal 
expenses,  there  were  none.  Yet  the  discipline  of 


198  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

the  place  was  fair,  to  say  the  least :  the  ratio  of 
violent  deaths  to  the  number  of  inhabitants  was 
not  nearly  as  great  as  in  any  of  the  Eastern  cities ; 
and  as  to  thieving  or  burglary,  such  crimes  were 
as  rare  as  a  church  service  —  which  Whooping 
Hollow  never  had  during  the  whole  period  of  its 
existence.  Of  course  such  a  unique  condition  of 
morality  is  easily  accounted  for.  ' '  Judge  Lynch  V 
court  was  the  only  tribunal  for  the  trial  of  offenses 
against  the  peace  and  dignity  of  the  town,  and 
from  its  decisions  there  was  no  appeal.  Besides, 
society  there  was  so  constituted  that  it  could  con- 
done a  murder  if  there  existed  the  slightest  shadow 
of  extenuating  circumstances,  but  it  would  never 
forgive  the  unlawful  appropriation  of  another's 
goods,  particularly  of  horses;  horse-stealing  be- 
ing the  unpardonable  sin,  as  it  is  generally  on 
the  frontier,  the  prompt  remedy  for  which  was 
11  a  short  shrift  and  a  long  rope." 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  perhaps  there 
were  hundreds  of  men  in  Whooping  Hollow  to 
whose  ears  the  shrill  whistle  of  a  bullet  would 
sound  sweeter  than  the  soft  notes  of  a  flute,  still 
their  general  good-nature,  when  sober,  and  princi- 
ple of  "honor  among  thieves,"  kept  them  within 
bounds.  Occasionally  —  very  naturally,  too  — 
there  were  desperate  fights  over  the  gambling- 


JUDGE  LYNCH '8  COURT  199 

tables  in  the  hells  which  abounded  in  Whooping 
Hollow,  and  frequently  an.  outrageously  obstrep- 
erous individual,  full  of  "  bug-juice,"  as  the  vile 
whisky  dispensed  in  the  saloons  was  called,  would 
get  a  hole  drilled  into  him  by  a  No.  44  revolver- 
ball,  or  his  vitals  carved  with  an  eleven-inch 
bowie.  But  arrests  were  rarely  made  in  quarrels 
of  that  character,  because  extenuating  circum- 
stances generally  existed.  Often,  under  the  ex- 
cellent care  of  the  skillful  doctor — a  former  army 
surgeon,  who  had  established  himself  there — the 
belligerents  would  recover  from  their  fearful  en- 
counter, but  oftener  took  up  their  last  "claim" 
of  six-feet-by-two  in  "The  Bone  Orchard,"  as  the 
cemetery  on  the  timbered  knoll  (where  it  was 
alleged  the  "  hant  "  was  originally  seen)  had  been 
dubbed  by  the  citizens  of  Whooping  Hollow. 

The  average  miner  (and  the  miners'  claims 
radiated  from  the  place  in  all  directions  at  vary- 
ing distances,  some  as  far  as  thirty  miles)  would 
come  into  town  once  a  week  at  least,  generally 
Sunday,  and  if  he  had  been  fortunate  in  his  dig- 
gings would  make  a  break  for  the  first  gaming- 
table in  his  way.  If  he  by  any  chance  won  he 
would  "make  the  rounds,"  which  in  local  par- 
lance meant  stopping  at  every  saloon  to  treat  the 
crowd  of  thirsty  bummers  always  present  on  such 


200  TALES    OF    THE    TBAIL 

occasions,  and  sometimes  provoking  a  quarrel 
with  the  first  man  who  got  in  his  way.  But  if 
losing,  the  rule  generally,  he  went  drunk  and 
sulky  back  to  his  claim,  consoling  himself  with 
the  hope  of  better  luck  next  time.  And  so  the 
lives  of  the  majority  were  passed.  Not  a  few  died 
"  with  their  boots  on  "  in  some  drunken  row  with 
their  friends,  to  whom  they  had  offered  a  real  or 
fancied  insult. 

As  in  all  mining-camps  at  the  period  of  Whoop- 
ing Hollow's  boom,  a  most  heterogeneous  crowd 
composed  its  residents  and  transient  occupiers. 
In  its  rough  but  busy  streets  you  met  all  shades 
and  nationalities*  The  tall,  plodding  Yankee, 
fresh  from  the  hills  of  New  England,  green  as  a 
gourd,  but  with  sufficient  gall  to  extricate  himself 
from  any  little  difficulty  he  might  stumble  into ; 
the  active,  restless  Texan;  the  jauntily  dressed 
commercial  traveler,  with  his  samples  of  bad 
whisky  and  worse  cigars;  the  swarthy  Mexican, 
with  his  broad  sombrero,  scarlet  sash,  and  irre- 
pressible cigarito;  that  darker  specimen  of  the 
genus  homo,  the  negro;  and,  last  of  all,  the 
"heathen  Chinee."  Nearly  every  State  had  its 
dozens  of  representatives  in  the  motley  group  of 
individuals  who  had  come  to  seek  their  fortunes 
in  this  new  El  Dorado.  It  was  a  grand  place  to 


JUDGE  LYNCH'S  COURT  201 

study  character ;  to  learii  how  all  the  finer  attri- 
butes of  man  may  be  completely  crushed  out  of 
his  nature  by  years  of  adversity,  and  how,  under 
the  same  circumstances  in  others,  all  that  is  .noble 
and  pure  predominates,  no  matter  how  hellish 
or  pestilential,  morally,  may  have  been  their 
surroundings. 

The  principal  store  of  the  town  was  owned  and 
conducted  by  Jemuel  Knaggs,  a  man  of  reputable 
character,  an  old  plainsman  and  mountaineer,  full 
of  enterprise  and  grit,  the  acknowledged  "leading 
citizen"  of  Whooping  Hollow.  In  every  com- 
munity, whether  the  most  enlightened  or  barba- 
rous, there  is  always  to  be  found  some  individual 
who,  by  his  force  of  character  and  other  inherent 
attributes,  becomes  foremost  in  all  that  concerns 
the  welfare  and  prosperity  of  the  people  who  com- 
pose it,  and  this  was  the  role  that  Jemuel  Knaggs 
played  in  the  rough  mining -camp  of  Whooping 
Hollow.  He  was  a  veteran  miner,  too,  of  Cali- 
fornia in  '49;  Fraser  river,  in  British  Columbia, 
in  '58;  and  Pike's  Peak  in  '59.  But  having 
amassed  several  thousand  dollars  during  his  er- 
ratic wanderings,  in  1859  he  abandoned  the  pick 
and  shovel  for  the  more  pleasant  occupation  of 
keeping  a  general  miners'  store,  whose  necessities 
none  knew  better  than  he.  So  he  opened  up  in 


202  TALES   OF   THE    TRAIL 

Whooping  Hollow  in  the  days  of  its  incipiency. 
He  was  a  man  about  fifty  years  old,  rather  slender 
than  otherwise,  but  there  was  something  in  his 
air  and  features  which  distinguished  him  from 
common  men.  The  expression  of  his  countenance 
was  keen  and  daring ;  his  forehead  was  high,  and 
his  lips  thin  and  compressed,  indicating  great  de- 
termination of  will.  One  would  not  have  hesi- 
tated to  confide  in  his  honor  or  courage,  but 
would  have  been  extremely  reluctant  to  provoke 
his  hostility.  He  always  wore  a  dark-blue  navy 
shirt,  to  the  collar  of  which  was  attached  a 
curious  button.  Around  his  waist  was  tightly 
buckled  a  broad  leather  "belt,  in  which  a  formi- 
dable looking  bowie-knife  was  stuck;  to  be  used, 
as  is  usual  with  all  frontiersmen,  for  various  pur- 
poses indifferently  —  to  kill  a  man,  cut  food,  pick 
his  teeth,  or  for  whittling  when  he  had  nothing 
else  to  do. 

Matters  progressed  very  smoothly  in  Whooping 
Hollow  for  two  or  three  years,  under  the  watchful 
care  of  Kuaggs  and  a  few  others  of  like  sterling 
character,  who  will  be  hurriedly  described  as  they 
appear  in  this  sketch.  But  at  the  end  of  that 
period  a  pall  suddenly  fell  on  the  place.  Men 
would  leave  for  a  visit  to  some  neighboring  camp 
or  on  a  hunting  expedition,  and  never  be  heard 


JUDGE  LYNCH'B  COURT  208 

of  again.  Sometimes  it  would  be  one  of  the  best 
citizens  who  would  disappear  all  at  once;  the 
number  of  instances  of  this  character  in  one  year 
aggregating  twenty.  At  last  the  whole  town  be- 
came aroused,  and  suspicions  of  foul  play  in  the 
matter  entered  their  heretofore  apparently  too 
lethargic  brains.  No  one  felt  safe,  and  when,  to 
"  cap  the  climax  "  as  it  were,  Jemuel  Knaggs  was 
declared  ' '  missing, ' '  an  investigation  was  imme- 
diately but  secretly  instituted. 

It  then  developed  that  with  one  or  two  excep- 
tions all  of  those  who  had  disappeared  had  left 
Whooping  Hollow  for  Sandy  Bar,  the  nearest 
mining-camp,  sixty  miles  distant,  and  to  which 
there  was  only  one  possible  trail  over  the  divide. 
That  the  parties  had  been  murdered  was  now  con- 
ceded ;  but  upon  whom  could  suspicion  rest  ?  and 
where  on  the  lonely  route  were  the  damnable 
deeds  committed  ?  These  were  the  questions  dis- 
cussed one  evening  by  half  a  dozen  prominent 
men  of  Whooping  Hollow,  who  had  secretly  met 
in  a  room  about  a  week  after  Jemuel  Knaggs 
failed  to  return  at  the  appointed  time.  He  was 
last  seen  on  the  day  of  his  departure  from  town 
by  some  reputable  miners,  who  had  met  and  con- 
versed with  him  on  the  trail  to  Sandy  Bar,  not 
more  than  twelve  miles  from  his  home.  He  had 


204  TALES   OF   THE    TRAIL 

never  arrived  at  Sandy  Bar,  however;  that  fact 
was  ascertained  to  a  certainty  through  diligent 
inquiry  there.  It  was  only  a  small  camp  of  less 
than  three  hundred  people,  and  he  was  as  well 
known  there  as  in  Whooping  Hollow. 

About  half-way  between  Whooping  Hollow  and 
Sandy  Bar  there  was  a  narrow,  rocky  valley, 
known  as  Willow  Springs  Gulch ;  abandoned  long 
ago  as  a  mining  region,  the  ore  in  that  vicinity 
having  consisted  of  a  series  of  small  ' '  pockets ' ' 
only,  which  were  naturally  exhausted  in  less  than 
six  months  from  the  date  of  their  discovery,  and 
that  was  more  than  two  years  before  operations 
had  begun  in  Whooping  Hollow.  But  the  place 
was  still  famous  for  its  pure  water,  which  gushed 
out  of  the  indurated  wall  of  a  small  cafion  in  a 
stream  as  large  as  a  man's  arm — clear,  cold  and 
sparkling;  the  best  water  to  be  found  in  the 
whole  sixty  miles'  ride.  The  entrance  to  the 
rocky  canon  was  almost  concealed  by  a  dense 
growth  of  mountain  willows;  hence  the  name. 
But  the  beautiful  spring  was  the  only  redeeming 
feature  in  the  otherwise  barren  and  desolate  land- 
scape. Near  this  lonely  spot  stood  a  small  adobe 
cabin,  or  rather  hut,  the  only  habitation  any- 
where within  twenty  miles  of  the  dreary  place. 
Its  sole  occupant  was  a  miner,  ostensibly,  who 


JUDGE  LYNCH'B  COURT  205 

pretended  to  own  a  claim  near  Sandy  Bar,  but  it 
was  alleged  that  no  one  ever  saw  him  work  it; 
yet  he  always  apparently  had  sufficient  money 
to  supply  his  wants,  ever  paying  gold  for  his 
purchases.  He  was  a  tall,  angular,  villainous- 
looking  specimen  of  humanity;  rough,  illiterate, 
dialectic  in  his  talk,  but  possessing  the  physique 
of  a  giant,  as  courageous  as  a  she-grizzly  with 
cubs,  a  dead  shot  with  the  revolver,  and  withal 
believed  by  every  one  to  be  a  desperado  in  the 
most  rigid  acceptation  of  the  term.  Viewed  su- 
perficially—  for  nobody  at  Whooping  Hollow  or 
Sandy  Bar  knew  anything  about  his  antecedents 
— he  was  apparently  without  one  redeeming  qual- 
ity, except  that  he  was  kind  to  his  dog,  a  mangy, 
spotted,  wicked  -  looking  yellow  cur,  with  only 
one  eye,  and  tailless — fit  companion  for  such  a 
surly-disposed  master.  This  strangely  mysterious 
being,  with  whom  no  one  had  any  more  inter- 
course than  was  absolutely  necessary,  and  that 
confined  to  the  limited  conversation  required 
when  he  entered  stores  to  make  purchases,  lived 
a  supremely  isolated  sort  of  an  existence,  for  he 
was  as  carefully  avoided  by  every  one  as  were  the 
rattlesnakes  that  infested  the  rocky  arroyos  of 
the  bald  bleak  hills  where  his  hut  was  located. 
Upon  him,  then,  black  suspicion  naturally  at 


206  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

once  fell  —  so  prone  is  human  nature  to  be  guided 
by  visible  forms ;  though  there  was  not  an  inkling 
of  proof,  either  circumstantial  or  direct,  upon 
which  to  base  this  man's  guilt. 

Fortunately,  they  who  were  quietly  investigat- 
ing the  cause  of  the  disappearance  of  Jemuel 
Knaggs  were  men  of  excellent  judgment;  cool, 
calm  and  deliberate  in  their  proceedings,  but  ter- 
ribly in  earnest.  They  had  received  their  educa- 
tion in  the  great  ' '  school  of  the  world ' ' :  they 
knew  that  suspicions  were  not  facts ;  that  appear- 
ances are  too  often  deceiving;  and  they  were 
nonplussed  because  convincing  proof  was  not 
forthcoming  to  convict  the  only  man  upon  whom 
a  shadow  of  probable  guilt  could  fall. 

This  strange  creature,  about  whom  nobody 
knew  anything,  was  called,  whenever  reference  to 
him  became  necessary  (often  now,  for  he  was  in 
everyone's  thought  a  murderer),  "Willow  Gulch 
Jack,"  because  his  real  name  was  not  ever  known 
—  adopting  the  Indian's  method  of  nomenclature 
and  associating  him  with  his  locality.  It  may 
readily  be  inferred  that  it  was  only  his  villainous 
aspect  and  isolated  life  that  brought  this  whole- 
sale condemnation  upon  him,  for  he  had  never 
been  guilty  of  any  disreputable  act  that  the  peo- 
ple could  discover,  and  now  they  left  no  stone 


JUDGE  LYNCH' s  COURT  207 

unturned  to  find  something  against  him ;  but  they 
avoided  and  suspected  him  as  a  sheep-raiser  does 
a  strange  cur  in  his  neighborhood.  Consequently 
a  system  of  espionage  was  inaugurated  on.  his 
movements,  but  nothing,  as  yet,  had  been  discov- 
ered to  cast  a  shadow  on  his  every-day  life.  He 
knew  that  he  was  suspected  and  watched ;  so,  for 
some  special  reason  which  had  not  yet  been  made 
clear  to  the  people  of  Whooping  Hollow,  he  was 
now  almost  constantly  absent  from  home,  passing 
his  time  on  the  trail  between  his  cabin  and  the 
top  of  the  divide  above  the  town,  always  accom- 
panied by  the  one-eyed,  tailless  dog,  his  constant 
companion.  His  enemies  were  aware  of  his  per- 
ambulations, but  could  not  divine  the  cause,  and 
the  mystery  connected  with  his  isolated  life 
seemed  to  them  more  impenetrable  than  ever. 
Of  course  they  did  not  hound  his  every  footstep, 
because,  as  they  reasoned,  that  would  give  him 
no  opportunity  to  commit  himself;  they  merely 
adopted  such  precautionary  measures  as  would 
prevent  his  escape  from  the  country,  and  that 
would  permit  them  to  arrest  him  at  any  time 
they  wanted  to  if  he  attempted  to  leave,  or  when- 
ever they  had  gathered  sufficient  proof  to  convict 
him,  which  as  yet  seemed  as  remote  as  ever  — 
flattering  themselves  all  the  while  that  he  was 
unconscious  of  their  intentions. 


208  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

One  day,  about  two  weeks  after  the  investiga- 
tion of  the  cause  of  the  disappearance  of  Jemuel 
Kiiaggs  had  been  fairly  inaugurated,  this  Willow 
Gulch  Jack,  as  I  shall  have  to  call  him  in  the 
absence  of  the  knowledge  of  his  real  name,  rode 
quietly  into  Whooping  Hollow,  dismounted,  tied 
his  mule  to  a  stump  in  front  of  Tom  Bradford's 
log  cabin,  walked  up  to  the  door,  gave  it  a  heavy 
kick,  and  waited  until  it  was  opened  —  his  cur,  at 
a  word  from  his  master,  lying  down  close  to  the 
mule. 

Tom  Bradford  was  a  veteran  miner,  one  of  the 
best  citizens  Whooping  Hollow  possessed,  whose 
opinions  on  important  matters  were  generally  re- 
garded as  conclusive  —  such  faith  the  curiously  as- 
sorted people  of  the  town  placed  in  his  excellent 
judgment,  which  fact  Jack  was  fully  aware  of. 
Bradford  himself  came  out  on  the  porch  in  re- 
sponse to  Jack's  tremendous  knock,  but  when  he 
saw  who  his  visitor  was,  a  shade  of  evident  dis- 
pleasure passed  over  his  countenance  —  for  he  too, 
although  he  knew  that  not  a  scintilla  of  proof 
had  been  forthcoming  after  all  these  days  of  in- 
vestigation, believed  in  this  man's  guilt.  Tom 
Bradford  regarded  Jack  intently  for  a  moment,  as 
if  wondering  what  to  say  or  do,  so  astonished  was 
he  at  his  presence;  but  Jack  broke  the  painful 
silence  in  a  few  words : 


JUDGE  LYNCH 'B  COURT  209 

"I  say,  Tom  Bradford,"  (nobody  was  "mis- 
tered" out  there  in  those  days,)  "I  hev  kim  ter 
talk  ter  ye.  I  knows  this  hyar  's  onexpected,  but 
I  don't  keer,  an'  w'at  I  hev  ter  tell  I  wants  ter  tell 
ye  whar  no  one  kin  har  we-uns.  Hev  yer  sich  a 
place  whar  we-uns  kin  converse  ondisturbed  ?  " 

Bradford  eyed  Jack  closely  for  a  few  seconds  — 
not  that  he  had  any  fear  of  the  man,  villainous 
as  he  looked,  and  giant  that  he  was  —  then  told 
him  to  follow  as  he  led  the  way  through  the  cabin 
door.  They  passed  out  of  one  room  into  another 
at  the  rear  (there  were  only  two  apartments  in 
the  building),  where  he  pushed  a  dilapidated 
rush-bottomed  chair  toward  Jack,  himself  taking 
another,  and,  throwing  his  feet  upon  a  rickety 
table,  the  only  other  article  of  furniture  in  the 
rude  log  den,  he  pulled  his  pipe  out  of  his  pocket, 
filled  it,  lighted  it,  and  handed  another  to  Jack 
with  the  tobacco  from  a  box  nailed  against  the 
wall  within  easy  reach.  He  gave  a  few  vigorous 
pulls  at  his  own,  emitting  a  cloud  of  smoke  that 
almost  enveloped  him,  then,  fixing  his  eyes  on  his 
unwelcome  visitor,  said : 

"Now  then,  I  'm  ready  to  hear  what  you  have 
got  to  communicate." 

"  Tom  Bradford,"  began  Jack  upon  this  invita- 
tion, "I  knows  thet  I  hev  been  'spected  of  these 
—14 


210  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

hyar  murders  w'at  hev  tuk  place ;  an'  I  knows  thet 
I  hev  been  hounded  an'  watched,  which  you-uns 
hed  no  idee  I  knowed;  but  ye  knows,  Tom  Brad- 
ford, thar  haint  er  shadder  kin  be  proved  agin 
me." 

"  I  am  aware  of  that,"  said  Bradford,  hurriedly ; 
"and  although  you  are  and  have  been  the  only 
man  in  the  mines  suspected,  we  folks  here  are 
(determined  that  no  innocent  person  shall  suffer 
upon  mere  suspicion  and  under  the  excitement 
of  the  moment;  we  are  also  determined  that  no 
guilty  party — or  parties,  if  there  should  be  more 
than  one  person  implicated — shall  escape  the 
swift,  summary  punishment  the  hellish  acts  de- 
serve. We  have  no  organized  courts  here,  but 
organize  them  as  we  need  them  ourselves.  No 
mere  technicality  will  save  a  rascal  either,  as  it 
does  sometimes  in  what  are  called  civilized  com- 
munities." 

"Tom  Bradford,"  continued  Jack,  "you  nor 
no  one  else  hez  ever  seen  me  a-loafin'  roun*  sa- 
loons, nor  gamblin '-hells ;  an'  no  one  hain't  never 
seen  me  drunk  nuther  —  hev  they?  I  knows  my 
looks  is  agin  me;  but  looks  hain't  nothin',  nor 
no  judge  ter  go  by.  I  hain't  no  harnsome  man  — 
never  sot  any  claim  ter  sich.  I  oncet  tuk  ther 
prize  fer  grinnin'  through  a  hoss-collar,  at  er 


JUDGE  LYNCH  *S  COURT  211 

county  fair  way  back  in  old  Kaintuk,  w'en  I  war 
young." 

At  this  admission  a  change  that  was  evidently 
intended  for  a  smile  suddenly  crept  over  Jack's 
face  as  he  opened  his  ponderous  jaws;  but  the 
effect  made  his  cavernous  mouth,  which  literally 
stretched  from  ear  to  ear,  look  as  if  it  had  been 
made  by  a  broadax  at  a  blow. 

"Waal,"  he  continued,  as  the  paroxysm  caused 
by  the  remembrance  of  his  youth  passed  off,  "I 
hev  been  doin'  some  detective  work  myself;  an' 
w'at  I  hev  diskivered  is  w'at  hez  brung  me  hyar  ter 
talk  ter  ye  'bout.  It  war  all  a  accident,  though ; 
an'  ef  it  hedn't  'a'  been  fer  thet  thar  ornery  dorg 
o'  mine,  I  wouldn't  er  foun'  out  nothin'.  You- 
uns  '11  all  be  surprised  ez  I  wuz,  w'en  ye  kim  ter 
larn  who  ther  murd'rer  for  sartin  is.  In  ther 
fust  place,  I  knowed  them  folkses  ez  war  inissin' 
never  got  pas'  my  cabin  " 

Bradford  looked  Jack  suddenly  in  the  eye,  as  if 
to  catch  the  true. meaning  of  his  last  assertion; 
but  Jack,  seeing  that  he  was  misunderstood,  be- 
came a  little  heated,  and  in  a  most  emphatic  man- 
ner said : 

"Never  reached  thar,  Tom  Bradford,  ez  I  wants 
ye  ter  onderstand  I  Now  I  wants  yer  ter  tell  me," 
he  continued,  getting  more  excited,  "how  many 


212  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

cabins — whar  folkses  lives,  I  means ;  'course  thar's 
lots  o'  'bandoned  ones — 'twixt  Whoopin'  Holler 
an'  mine?" 

"Well,"  replied  Bradford,  in  response  to  Jack's 
interrogatory,  "there  are  but  two  —  Cal.  Jones's 
and  Ike  Podgett's.  Why  ?  ' ' 

"Don't  yer  see,  Tom  Bradford,  ef  them  ez  is 
missin'  never  got  ter  my  cabin,  they  never  got  by 
one  o'  them  t'others?  " 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Bradford,  look- 
ing up  excitedly  into  Jack's  face. 

"  I  means  jes'  w'at  I  says,"  replied  Jack,  gazing 
as  earnestly  now  into  Bradford's.  "  Ef  er  man 
leaves  Whoopin'  Holler  fer  Sandy  Bar,  he  kain't 
git  off  en  ther  trail,  kin  he  ?  Thar  hain't  but  one 
trail,  is  thar  ?  An'  ef  he  don't  kim  back,  an' 
don't  go  ahead,  he  mus'  'a'  stopped  somewhar 
'twixt  ther  two  places,  mus'  n't  he  ?  An'  ef  he 
haint  heerd  of  fer  a  long  while,  he  mus'  hev 
stopped  fer  good,  eh?  Now  do  yer  understan', 
Tom  Bradford?"  and  Jack  emphasized  his  re- 
marks by  bringing  down  his  huge  fist  like  a  sledge- 
hammer on  top  of  the  rickety  old  table  right  in 
front  of  Bradford. 

Tom  Bradford  smiled  at  Jack's  earnestness,  and 
looking  him  squarely  in  the  eyes,  said : 

"Why,  you  must  be  insane,  man !     Cal.  Jones's 


JUDGE  LYNCH'S  COURT  213 

fcabiii  is  right  on  the  highest  point  of  the  divide. 
If  you  were  out  on  my  porch,  you  could  see  it 
from  here.  You  ain't  crazy  enough  to  suppose 
that  a  murder  could  be  committed  at  such  an  ex- 
posed place,  and  everybody  in  town  not  know  it 
in  ten  minutes?  And  as  for  Ike  Podgett — ha! 
ha  I  ha  1  Ike  Podgett  I  why,  man,  Ike  Podgett  is 
one  of  our  best  citizens;  one  of  the  most  enter- 
prising men  in  the  place;  always  has  plenty  of 
money ;  spends  it  freely,  too.  To  be  sure  he  gam- 
bles some,  and  drinks.  Who  don't  ?  They  are 
mighty  few  —  you  know  that.  He  don't  come  to 
town  very  often ;  stays  at  home  a  good  deal ;  but 
then,  he  's  got  a  fine  paying  claim,  and  works  it 
for  all  there  is  in  it ;  at  least  that  is  what  he  tells 
all  of  us  here  in  town.  Ike  Podgett — ha  I  ha! 
ha !  That 's  a  good  one,  I  swear !  " 

Jack's  eyes  snapped  as  Bradford  laughed  in  his 
face.  He  was  getting  mad  at  the  manner  in  which 
his  statements  were  being  received ;  he  grew  very 
red,  and  blurted  out : 

"Ike  Podgett  hain't  home  now,  is  he ?  " 

"No,"  answered  Bradford;  "he's  gone  bear- 
hunting  with  a  lot  of  the  boys ;  been  gone  several 
days;  won't  be  back  for  a  week  yet;  they  were 
going  as  far  as  the  Spanish  Peaks." 

"  His'n  is  er  mighty  lonesome  pJace,  hain't  it  ?  *' 
queried  Jack. 


214  TALES    OF   THE   TRAIL 

"Yes,"  answered  Bradford,  "a  mighty  lone- 
some place.  I  don't  see  how  he  can  live  there  — 
such  a  rocky,  dark  canon  —  hardly  a  ray  of  sun- 
light enters  there  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  But 
he  says  he  loves  solitude,  and  don't  like  neighbors 
too  near ' ' — 

"I'm  his  closest,  I  reckon,"  interrupted  Jack 
again. 

"I  believe  you  are,"  replied  Bradford. 

"He's  married,  though,  hain't  he,  to  a  Spanish 
woman? — on'y  a  child,  'pears  ter  me;  I've  seed 
her  oncet  or  twicet." 

"  He's  got  a  woman  out  there  with  him  —  don't 
know  whether  she 's  his  wife  or  mistress.  We 
folks  here  don't  bother  our  heads  about  such  mat- 
ters; it's  none  of  our  business;  she's  Mexican, 
though,"  answered  Bradford.  "  But  why,"  con- 
tinued he,  impatient  and  disgusted  with  the  inter- 
view's length,  "why  do  you  ask  these  ridiculous 
questions?  I  have  no  time  to  waste!  "  He  then 
petulantly  rose,  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe, 
evidently  tired,  and  determined  to  end  the  matter 
right  there  and  get  rid  of  his  annoying  visitor. 

"  'Cause,  Tom  Bradford,"  slowly  and  solemnly 
replied  Jack,  at  the  same  time  getting  up  from  his 
chair,  too ;  and  putting  his  mouth  close  to  Brad- 
ford's ear,  he  hoarsely  whispered : 


JUDGE  LYNCH 'S  COURT  215 

"  'Cause  Ike  Podgett  is  the  murderer  of  Jemuel 
Knaggs,  anyhow,  an'  w'y  not  o'  all  the  t'others 
ez  is  missin'  ?  " 

"  My  God,  man  I  what  do  you  mean  ?"  excitedly 
asked  Tom  Bradford,  suddenly  wheeling  around 
and  placing  both  of  his  hands  on  Jack's  shoulders. 

"  Tom  Bradford,  I  mean  'zac'ly  w'at  I  kin  prove ; 
an'  ter  tell  this  hyar  is  w'at  hez  brung  me  ter  this 
hyar  cabin." 

"  Hold  on !  "  cried  Bradford,  violently  agitated ; 
" you  must  prove  it,  must  tell  all  you  know;  but 
in  the  presence  of  others.  Wait — sit  down  here 
—  I  '11  be  back  directly,  and  bring  some  one  with 
me.  Waitl  "  and  Bradford  rushed  out  into  the 
street  in  a  terrible  state  of  excitement. 

He  returned  in  less  than  twenty  minutes  in 
company  with  a  short,  thick-set,  grizzly  veteran 
miner,  a  man  about  sixty  years  of  age.  This  was 
old  man  Bartlett — better  known,  however,  and 
generally  accosted  as  "Judge,"  because  he  had  so 
frequently  presided  over  the  locally  instituted 
courts  in  the  diggings  everywhere  he  had  been 
during  his  long  career  in  the  mountains  and  on 
the  Plains.  He  was  regarded  by  everybody  as  the 
most  level-headed,  honest  and  discreet  man  in 
the  whole  Range.  In  fact,  that  had  been  his  rep- 
utation wherever  he  had  traveled,  following  him 


216  TALES   OF   THE    TRAIL 

in  all  his  erratic  wanderings  since  his  advent  in 
the  Far  West,  forty  years  before  he  turned  up  in 
Whooping  Hollow.  He  had  "  whacked  bulls  "  on 
the  old  Santa  Fe  trail ;  had  lived  for  months  on 
hardtack  and  bacon  in  the  mountains  of  Califor- 
nia ;  had  nearly  starved  to  death  011  the  sage-bush 
plains  of  Nevada ;  had  been  captured  by  Apaches 
in  Arizona,  but  was  rescued  by  a  detachment  of 
United  States  dragoons  just  in  time  to  escape  the 
torture  of  the  stake,  the  fires  for  which  were  al- 
ready lighted ;  and  years  before  all  these  strange 
experiences,  had  "filibustered"  with  Walker  in 
Nicaragua.  Altogether,  he  had  seen  as  eventful 
a  life  as  ever  fell  to  the  fortune  of  one  man. 

When  the  two  men  entered  the  little  barren  log 
room  where  Jack  was,  they  found  him  sitting  at 
its  only  window,  his  number  twelve  feet  on  the 
broad  sill,  pulling  vigorously  at  the  clay  pipe  that 
Bradford  in  his  rough  hospitality  had  originally 
provided  him  with,  blowing  great  rings  of  smoke 
out  of  his  huge  mouth  as  he  sat  there  as  imper- 
turbable as  a  rock.  He  greeted  Bartlett  with  a 
short  "Howdy,  Jedge,"  and  then  resumed  his 
pipe,  waiting  for  him  or  Bradford  to  open  the 
conversation. 

Old  Sam  pulled  an  enormous  plug  of  navy  to- 
bacco from  his  hip  pocket,  tore  off  a  liberal  por- 


JUDGE  LYNCH'S  COURT  217 

tion  with  his  teeth,  rolled  the  immense  quid  over 
in  his  mouth  several  times,  and  then,  looking 
earnestly  at  Jack  as  if  to  measure  him  in  his 
miiid,  said: 

"  Jack,  Bradford  's  been  telling  me  some  mighty 
queer  stories.  Ike  Podgett  a  murderer  ?  I  don't 
believe  a  word  of  it.  He,"  jerking  his  thumb 
toward  Bradford,  "wanted  me  to  come  over  and 
hear  your  statement,  which  I  agreed  to ;  but  I  tell 
you  beforehand,  the  proofs  will  have  to  be  clear 
as  Holy  Writ  to  convince  me  that  Ike  Podgett 
knows  what  has  become  of  Jemuel  Knaggs  any 
more  than  me  and  Tom  here  does." 

"The  Judge"  was  not  always  a  rigid  follower 
of  the  rules  laid  down  by  Lindley  Murray  in  the 
construction  of  his  sentences,  therefore  frequently 
got  the  cases  of  his  pronouns  mixed,  although  he 
was  a  college  graduate;  but  he  generally  talked 
fairly  correctly. 

"Let's  hear  your  story,"  continued  he;  "tell 
us  what  you  know,  and  how  you  know,  as  you 
have  asserted  to  Bradford  that  Ike  Podgett  killed 
Jemuel  Knaggs." 

"Waal,"  commenced  Jack,  leaving  his  place  at 
the  window,  rising  to  his  full  height,  stretching 
out  his  long  arms,  giving  a  tremendous  yawn  as 
he  did  so;  then  moving  his  chair  to  the  end  of 


218  TALES   OF   THE   TRAIL 

the  table  between  the  two  men,  who  had  seated 
themselves  on  opposite  sides,  their  feet  of  course 
on  top,  where,  resting  his  elbows  on  it,  his  im- 
mense paws  supporting  his  shaggy  head,  Jack 
looked  his  interlocutor  squarely  in  the  eyes,  and 
continued : 

"Waal,  yer  knows,  sence  I  war  satisfied  that  I 
war  a-bein'  watched  an'  hounded  an'  'spected  by 
you-uns  hyar  in  Whoopin'  Holler,  I  'lowed  ter 
myself  thet  I  would  do  a  leetle  detective  work  on 
my  own  'count  —  ez  I  hev  told  Bradford  hyar. 
So  I  gits  onto  my  mule,  tuks  Jupe  —  thet 's  thet 
thar  yaller,  no-'count,  ornery  dorg  o'  mine  —  an' 
we  jes'  nat'ralfy  comminces  ter  prowl  thet  thar 
trail  from  t'other  side  o'  Ike  Podgett's  'twixt  thar 
an'  ther  Holler,  fer  inore'n  er  week.  But  we-uns 
didn't  see  nothin'  'spicious  till  day  afore  yister- 
day,  'long  in  ther  shank  o'  ther  evenin'.  Then  I 
war  ridiii'  by  Podgett's  place — Jupe  hed  run 
'way  'head  o'  me  —  I  war  goin'  toler'ble  slow  an' 
thiukin'  powerful;  an'  w'en  I  got  clos't  ter  ther 
cabin,  I  seed  thet  thar  fool  dorg  o'  mine  er  dig- 
gin'  an'  er  pawin'  et  suthin'  he  hed  unyearthed. 
Ther  no-'count  cuss  is  always  hungry  an'  always 
huntin'  fer  suthiii  ter  eat.  Then  ez  I  obsarved 
thar  warn't  no  one  ter  home,  I  gits  down  offen  my 
mule,  hitches  him,  an'  lights  out  fer  ther  r'ar  o' 


JUDGE  LYNCH'S  COURT  219 

ther  cabin  whar  ther  dorg  war,  ter  see  w'at  he 
war  so  consarned  'bout;  an'  w'en  I  reached  thai, 
gentlemin,  et  war  a  human  leg  and  foot.  An' 
Btoopin'  down,  I  picked  this  hyar  outen  ther  dirt 
ther  dorg  hed  pawed  up !  " 

Getting  up  from  his  seat  as  he  said  this,  Jack 
pulled  out  of  the  breast-pocket  of  his  flannel  shirt 
a  little  mass  of  iron  pyrites,  an  octahedrite  in 
shape  —  a  rare  form  of  that  common  combination 
of  iron  and  sulphur — which  was  drilled  onto  a 
plate  of  gold,  making  it  a  perfect  but  unique 
collar-button. 

"Great  God!"  exclaimed  Bartlett  and  Brad- 
ford simultaneously,  as  they  both  jumped  up  ex- 
citedly at  the  sight  of  the  trinket  Jack  held  in 
his  hand. 

Tom  Bradford  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  first. 
Slapping  his  fist  on  the  table,  and  then  pointing 
his  finger  at  Jack,  who  stood  as  calm  as  a  statue, 
said  vehemently :  ' 

"Judge  Bartlett,  either  this  man's  story  is  true, 
or  he  is  the  murderer  himself  1  " 

"Great  God!  "  reiterated  Bartlett,  putting  his 
hand  to  his  head  in  his  evident  bewilderment; 
"Bradford  —  I  don't  know  —  I'm  completely 
dumbfounded!  Everybody  in  the  mines  knows 
that  collar-button.  There  's  not  another  one  like 


220  TALES    OF   THE   TRAIL 

it  in  the  mountains.  Knaggs  always  wore  it  at 
the  neck  of  his  flannel  shirt.  He  's  told  me  many 
a  time  that  he  'd  refused  $50  for  it.  This  matter 
must  be  thoroughly  investigated." 

He  then  reached  for  the  button,  which  Jack 
promptly  handed  to  him,  and  which  he  examined 
carefully  for  a  few  moments  in  silence,  sitting 
down  for  that  purpose.  Then  turning  suddenly 
to  Jack,  who — now  conscious  that  he  had  at  least 
caused  Bradford  and  Bartlett  to  believe  that  he 
might  be  innocent,  and  that  his  story  might  be 
true  —  had  resumed  his  seat,  and  was  coolly  fill- 
ing his  pipe  again,  the  old  Judge  asked  him: 

"Jack,  did  you  leave  the  leg  and  foot  where 
the  dog  found  it,  or  what  did  you  do  with  it  ?  " 

"I  left  it  thar,"  replied  Jack,  but  I  kivered  it 
up  agin;  an'  I  stomped  ther  groun'  down  'roun' 
it  so  ez  it  looked  like  it  hed  n't  been  tech'd.  Then 
I  went  ter  my  cabin ;  then  I  kim  hyar  ter  Brad- 
ford's. Ther  on'y  thing  I  brung  'way  war  thet 
button,  an'  fer  which  I  '11  thank  yer  ter  gin  me 
ag'in.  I  wants  to  keep  it  er  while  yit!" 

Bartlett  hesitated  a  moment,  rolling  over  in 
his  fingers  the  mute  evidence  of  a  crime  commit- 
ted ;  looked  at  Bradford  interrogatively,  who  nod- 
ded significantly,  and  then  he  handed  the  curious 
-  object  back  to  Jack. 


JUDGE  LYNCH 'B  COURT  221 

"Thank  ye,  gentlemin,"  said  he,  as  he  put  it 
carefully  into  his  pocket  again;  " I'm  et  yer  sar- 
vice  et  any  time,  and  so  is  this  hyar  button  w'en 
ye  wants  it;  an'  I  hopes  you-ns  means  ter  'vesti- 
gate  this  hyar  matter  ter  oncet.  Ike  Podgett's 
'way  now,  an'  w'en  he  kirns  back  it 's  mebby  too 
late." 

Bartlett  and  Bradford  consulted  aside  in  a  low 
tone  for  a  few  moments;  then  walking  back  to 
the  table  where  Jack  was  still  sitting,  pulling  at 
his  pipe,  and  almost  invisible  because  of  the 
smoke,  the  old  Judge  said: 

"Jack,  this  is  a  strange  piece  of  business,  and 
we  are  both  staggered.  Yet  we  are  not  unreason- 
able; we  know  that  nothing  is  more  deceptive 
than  a  man's  estimate  of  human  nature;  it  seems 
mighty  hard  to  come  to  your  way  of  thinking ; 
but  we  all  may  have  been  most  terribly  deceived 
in  Ike  Podgett.  We  will  examine  his  premises 
and  investigate  the  matter  to  the  end.  Now  we 
want  you  to  go  quietly  out  to  your  cabin  from 
here ;  say  nothing  to  anyone  about  what  you  have 
told  us.  To-night  we  will  discuss,  with  some  of 
our  best  citizens,  what  is  best  to  be  done;  and  to- 
morrow meet  us  at  Podgett's.  If  we  arrive  there 
first  we  will  wait  right  on  the  trail  for  you,  and 
take  no  action  before  you  come ;  but  if  you  get  to 


222  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

the  place  before  we  do,  wait  for  our  party.  Don't 
go  near  the  cabin  and  don't  touch  a  thing,  and 
then  nobody  can  raise  any  suspicions  of  a  job, 
which  some  of  Podgett's  friends  might  accuse  you 
of.  We  will  try  to  be  there  by  eleven  o'clock, 
and  that  will  allow  you  ample  time  to  reach  there 
as  soon  as  that  hour  too." 

The  old  Judge  having  finished  his  instructions 
and  warnings,  the  three  men  went  out  of  the 
cabin  and  separated.  Jack  mounted  liis  mule, 
whistled  to  Jupe,  and  rode  slowly  up  the  steep 
divide  into  the  hills,  where  he  was  soon  lost  to 
sight.  Bartlett  and  Bradford  walked  down  to 
the  main  street,' their  feelings  wonderfully  af- 
fected, and  entered  the  little  building  that  did 
duty  as  the  postoffice  for  Whooping  Hollow  and 
surrounding  mining-camps,  to  look  up  the  proper 
persons  with  whom  to  consult  concerning  the  ter- 
rible revelations  of  a  few  moments  before. 

That  evening  just  after  the  candles  were  lighted, 
Judge  Bartlett,  Tom  Bradford,  Doctor  Chase,  and 
Issachar  Noe,  the  last  of  whom  was  postmaster, 
met  in  the  little  rectangular  space  behind  the 
rude  rack  of  letter-boxes  in  Noe's  store,  to  formu- 
late plans  for  their  trip  on  the  morrow  to  Ike 
Podgett's  cabin,  the  bloody  story  concerning  it 
having  been  imparted  to  Noe  and  the  Doctor  when 


JUDGE  LYNCH 'S  COURT  223 

Bartlett  and  Bradford  came  down-town  that  after- 
noon, immediately  after  their  interview  with  Jack. 

A  little  after  daylight  next  morning  the  four 
prominent  citizens  of  Whooping  Hollow  who  had 
secretly  met  at  the  postoffice  the  previous  evening 
were  well  on  the  trail  to  Podgett's.  They  had 
only  twenty-three  miles  to  go,  but  the  zigzag 
up  to  the  crest  of  the  divide  was  so  rocky,  rough 
and  precipitous  that  they  were  compelled  to 
"wind"  their  horses  every  few  rods;  conse- 
quently the  trip  was  so  fatiguing  to  both  men 
and  animals  that  they  did  not  arrive  there  until 
nearly  110011. 

Podgett's  cabin,  one  of  the  better  class,  roomy, 
and  adorned  with  a  veranda,  was  situated  in  the 
most  God-forsaken  looking  region  imaginable. 
There  was  not  a  tree,  bush,  or  any  vegetation,  not 
even  a  cactus,  in  sight.  It  was  hidden  among 
great  water-worn  columns  of  lava,  which  so  com- 
pletely enveloped  it  in  their  ominous  shadows  that 
only  late  in  the  afternoon  the  sun's  lingering  rays, 
low  down  in  the  west,  entered  the  gloomy  canon 
in  which  the  isolated  cabin  was  located. 

"  God  in  Israel  1  "  said  Issachar  Noe  —  a  favor- 
ite expression  of  his  when  excited — "how  can  a 
man  content  himself  in  such  a  spot  as  this  ?  I 
would  n't  live  here  for  a  hundred  dollars  an  hour," 


224  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

he  continued,  as  he  surveyed  the  dismal  surround- 
ings of  the  barren  and  repulsive  place. 

"  Some  men  love  solitude,"  said  the  Doctor,  as 
if  in  response  to  Noe's  comments.  "  I  know  many 
natures  among  my  acquaintances  in  the  East  who 
could  be  perfectly  happy  in  such  a  sequestered 
spot  as  this.  To  them,  solitude  is  the  nurse  of 
enthusiasm,  and" — 

"Great  Csesar!"  interrupted  Torn  Bradford, 
destroying  at  once  the  thread  of  the  Doctor's  phi- 
losophy. "  See  those  wolves!  "  at  the  same  mo- 
ment pointing  with  his  ' '  quirt ' '  to  half  a  dozen 
or  more  of  that  large  gray  mountain  species  that 
were  scampering  over  the  angular  lava  bowlders 
up  the  caiioii  in  the  rear  of  the  cabin.  These  ani- 
mals had  not  before  been  observed,  because  the 
party  from  town  had  seated  themselves  on  the 
trail  immediately  in  front  of  the  hut,  upon  their 
arrival  at  the  place.  They  had  not  ventured  any 
nearer,  in  accordance  with  the  agreement  made  at 
the  conference  held  in  Tom  Bradford's  room  that 
neither  the  party  nor  Jack  was  to  investigate 
alone,  but  together. 

In  a  few  moments  the  cause  of  the  wolves'  hasty 
retreat  made  its  appearance  in  the  shape  of  the 
one-eyed  tailless  dog  Jupe,  slowly  shambling 
around  a  curve  in  the  trail,  closely  followed  by 


JUDGE  LYNCH 'B  COUBT  225 

the  gaunt,  angular  figure  of  Jack,  seated  on  his 
mule.  As  he  approached,  the  party  from  Whoop- 
ing Hollow,  who  were  reclining  on  the  rocks  scat- 
tered on  the  trail,  rose,  while  Jack,  dismounting, 
hitched  his  animal  to  a  bowlder,  and  saluting  all 
with  a  "Howdy,  gents,"  he  joined  them.  Then 
without  further  talk  at  that  moment,  they  pro- 
ceeded to  the  rear  of  Ike  Podgett's  cabin,  piloted 
by  Jack.  They  soon  arrived  at  the  spot  he  had 
told  Bradford  and  Bartlett  of,  but  the  moment  he 
cast  his  eyes  on  the  place  he  exclaimed : 

"Great  heavens!  ther  wolves  hev  been  hyarl  " 

The  earth  was  torn  up,  and  lying  on  the  edge  of 
the  shallow  grave,  sure  enough,  were  a  human  leg 
and  foot  —  the  same  described  by  Jack,  which  he 
had  reinterred,  but  which  the  wolves  had  again 
dragged  out  of  the  hole. 

14  Well,  I'm 1  "  ejaculated  old  Sain  Bartlett, 

as  he  contemplated  the  horrid  spectacle,  and  he 
vigorously  mopped  his  bald  head — out  of  which 
the  perspiration  now  oozed  in  great  beads — with 
an  enormous  red  bandana. 

"  There's  no  question  about  that  leg  and  foot," 
said  the  Doctor,  as  he  stooped  and  picked  up  the 
ghastly  objects  to  examine  them  more  closely. 
"They're  human  —  no  getting  over  that,  but 
whether  they  belonged  to  Jemuel  Kuaggs,  of 
—15 


226  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

course  I  can't  say."  Pulling  them  out  of  the  soft 
dirt,  he  found  clinging  to  the  end  of  the  femur  a 
piece  of  cloth  of  some  kind,  which  the  instant 
Tom  Bradford  saw  he  took  in  his  hands,  held  it 
up,  and  exclaimed: 

"Well,  this  is  the  last  straw  that  breaks  the 
camel's  back  for  me!  "  All  could  see  that  it  was 
the  fragment  of  a  blue  flannel  shirt,  its  broad 
collar,  with  the  buttonhole,  torn  apart. 

"A  piece  of  Jemuel  Knagg's  shirt,  or  I'm  a 
liar,"  solemnly  said  Issachar  Noe,  as  he  gazed  on 
the  bit  of  telltale  garment.  "He  always  wore 
that  kind,"  continued  Noe.  "  I  sent  to-St.  Louis 
for  them  myself  for  him ;  that  is  a  part  of  one  of 
them." 

The  astounded  party,  upon  this  confirmation  of 
Podgett's  guilt,  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  for 
a  few  seconds,  when  Bartlett,  breaking  the  awful 
stillness,  said: 

"  Gentlemen,  I  've  seen  enough  here !  Let 's  go 
and  examine  the  cabin  —  which  we  've  got  a  right 
to  do  now,  as  law-abiding  citizens,  after  such 
damnable  revelations  outside  of  it!" 

On  entering  the  cabin,  effected  by  the  colossal 
Jack  making  a  sort  of  a  side-lurch  against  the 
door,  which  immediately  flew  off  its  hinges  at  his 
first  essay,  they  discovered  in  the  corner  of  the 


JUDGE  LYNCH'B  COURT  227 

room  used  as  a  kitchen  a  spot  where  the  dirt  floor 
seemed  to  yield  a  little  to  the  pressure  of  their 
feet  as  they  walked  over  it,  appearing  as  if  it 
had  been  disturbed  quite  recently.  Searching  for 
some  implement  with  which  to  examine  the  sus- 
picious corner  more  closely,  they  at  last  found  a 
spade  hanging  on  a  peg  in  the  wall  of  another 
apartment,  evidently  the  sleeping-room.  Here 
and  there  were  evidences  of  a  woman's  occupancy. 
Under  the  bed  a  No.  1  pair  of  shoes  tautalizingly 
obtruded.  On  the  bed  itself  a  corset  was  lying, 
where  it  had  apparently  been  hastily  thrown  off 
by  its  petite  owner;  and  suspended  from  some 
hooks  in  the  logs  forming  the  side  of  the  building 
were  several  skirts  and  other  portions  of  female 
apparel.  For  a  moment,  but  only  for  a  moment, 
these  things,  so  rare  in  the  mining-camps  of  that 
period,  nearly  diverted  from  their  mission  the 
stern  and  honest  men  who  had  entered  there,  so 
sweetly  suggestive  were  the  articles  of  mother, 
sister,  or  perhaps  wife,  so  far  away,  and  bright 
visions  crowded  thick  upon  their  brains.  It  was 
soon  dispelled,  however,  as  the  realization  of  the 
actual  present  forced  itself  upon  them;  so,  tak- 
ing down  the  spade  from  its  place,  they  returned 
to  the  kitchen,  and  Jack,  who  had  volunteered, 
commenced  to  dig. 


228  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

He  had  not  excavated  to  a  depth  of  more  than 
two  feet  when  he  unearthed  the  mutilated  frag- 
ments of  another  human  body!  Hereupon  he 
rested  from  his  labor  for  a  moment ;  then  stooped 
down  and  pulled  something  out  of  the  hole,  his 
hands  trembling  violently  as  he  laid  the  object 
on  the  floor,  and  exclaiming  as  he  rose  up : 

"  This  hyar  gits  me,  by !  " 

Every  one  was  now  almost  uncontrollably  ex- 
cited, and  if  Podgett  had  at  that  instant  entered 
his  own  door  he  would  have  been  annihilated  by 
the  infuriated  men  without  a  chance  to  explain, 
for  just  as  Jack  gave  vent  to  his  words  he  had 
lifted  out  of  the  hole  a  head,  to  which  was  still 
attached  a  long  red  beard.  He  recognized  it  at 
once,  and  that  fact  was  the  cause  of  his  excite- 
ment. 

' '  God  in  Israel  1  ' '  said  Issachar  Noe  vehe- 
mently, as  he  got  down  on  his  knees  to  view 
the  ghastly  object  more  closely.  "That's  Tom 
Jackson's  head,  and  he  's  only  been  missing  about 
two  months  !  " 

"That's  so,"  solemnly  replied  old  Sam  Bart- 
lett.  "  That's  poor  Tom's  beard,  sure  enough  !  " 

For  more  than  three  hours  the  now  determined 
men  worked  inside  and  outside  the  cabin  that 
they  now  knew  had  such  a  bloody  record.  At 


JUDGE  LYNCH '8  COURT  229 

the  end  of  that  time,  when  they  ceased  their  hor- 
rid labor  from  sheer  exhaustion,  they  had  discov- 
ered the  remains  of  twelve  human  bodies,  among 
which  was  that  of  a  baby's,  which  sorely  puzzled 
them  to  account  for.  Many  of  the  remains,  where 
the  head  was  not  too  much  decayed,  they  recog- 
nized as  once  citizens  of  Whooping  Hollow  who 
had  ridden  out  from  it  never  to  return. 

Charred  fragments  of  skeletons,  too,  were  found 
hidden  in  holes  in  the  rocks,  and  it  was  reason- 
ably supposed  that  many  other  victims  than  those 
whose  bones  they  had  brought  to  light  must  have 
been  murdered  by  the  demon  Podgett,  and  their 
bodies  left  in  the  mountains  just  where  he  had 
killed  them,  to  be  devoured  by  the  wolves. 

Putting  portions  of  several  remains  in  a  sack, 
including  the  ghastly  head  of  Tom  Jackson,  they 
induced  Jack — towards  whom  their  manner  had 
entirely  changed  —  to  pack  the  repulsive-looking 
burden  on  the  back  of  his  mule,  and  they  all  re- 
turned to  town. 

The  result  of  their  horrible  experience  was  dis- 
closed to  several  of  the  most  reputable  people  of 
the  place,  who  that  same  evening  met  with  them 
in  the  postoffice,  in  "secret  session,"  to  devise 
plans  for  Podgett 's  arrest  before  he  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  revisit  his  cabin.  It  was  conceded  that 


280  TALES   OF   THE    TRAIL 

he  would  come  to  town  first  with  the  hunting 
party  that  he  had  gone  out  with,  which  would  re- 
turn in  three  or  four  days  at  farthest,  and  it  was 
resolved  to  secure  him  the  moment  he  made  his 
appearance.  To  this  duty  they  appointed  the 
now  worthy  Jack  and  one  Bart  Kennedy. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  after  the 
meeting,  Podgett  rode  unsuspiciously  into  town 
with  his  companions,  and  the  instant  he  alighted 
from  his  mule  found  himself  locked  in  Jack's 
vise-like  embrace,  who  with  others  had  been  anx- 
iously watching  for  his  coming.  He  was  at  once 
secured  in  a  little  log  building,  and  carefully 
guarded  by  two  plucky  Irish  miners  who  had  vol- 
unteered their  services,  for  by  this  time  all  the 
law-abiding  element  of  Whooping  Hollow  had  be- 
come acquainted  with  the  sickening  discoveries  at 
the  wretch's  cabin. 

Podgett  thus  safely  under  bolt  and  bar,  a  com- 
mittee was  sent  over  to  Sandy  Bar  to  interview 
his  Mexican  wife  or  mistress,  whose  people  lived 
somewhere  in  the  mountains  near  there,  as  it  was 
learned  that  she  had  gone  home.  They  found  her 
with  her  father,  a  widower,  who  could  speak  noth- 
ing but  Spanish,  nor  could  she  speak  English  at 
all.  But  Isaacher  Noe,  one  of  the  party,  under- 
stood and  conversed  in  the  language  like  a  native ; 
so  no  interpreter  was  necessary. 


JUDGE  LYNCH'S  COUKT  281 

The  girl  was  very  young,  very  pretty,  but  ap- 
parently too  youthful  for  either  wife  or  mother. 
From  her  some  startling  disclosures  were  elicited. 
She  had  witnessed  a  number  of  murders  at  the 
cabin,  but  had  been  afraid  to  say  a  word,  because 
Podgett  swore  that  he  would  kill  her  if  she  did. 
But  when  he  dashed  her  baby's  brains  out  in  the 
most  cruel  and  atrocious  manner,  right  before  her 
eyes,  less  than  two  months  ago,  she  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  would  expose  his  bloody  life  as 
soon  as  she  could  find  a  safe  opportunity.  She 
had  run  away  from  him  the  night  he  went  off 
hunting,  and  came  to  her  father's,  declaring  that 
she  would  die  before  she  would  go  back  and  con- 
sort again  with  such  a  monster. 

When  the  committee  returned  to  Whooping 
Hollow,  and  had  submitted  their  report,  threats 
were  freely  and  openly  made  by  the  exasperated 
miners  that  they  would  take  Podgett  out  of  the 
improvised  jail  and  hang  him  at  once.  But  better 
counsel  prevailed,  and  it  was  finally  agreed  upon 
at  an  open-air  meeting  held  that  afternoon  that 
he  should  have  a  fair  trial,  as  had  always  been 
customary  in  dealing  with  criminals  since  the  es- 
tablishment of  the  camp.  The  prisoner  would  be 
allowed  to  select  a  jury  of  twelve  men  himself — 
but  it  must  be  composed  of  the  most  reputable 


232  TALES    OP   THE   TRAIL 

citizens  only;  a  judge  should  be  elected  by  the 
crowd,  he  to  appoint  some  one  competent  to 
prosecute,  and  another  to  defend. 

As  soon  as  the  preliminaries  were  agreed  to  by 
the  now  excited  mob,  George  Burton's  general 
outfitting  store  was  selected  for  the  court-room, 
and  the  trial  set  for  eight  o'clock  the  same  even- 
ing. In  that  community  no  such  thing  as  the 
law's  delay  was  brooked;  the  citizens  of  Whoop- 
ing Hollow  believing  in  swift,  stern  justice  on  all 
occasions. 

Long  before  the  hour  appointed  for  the  trial 
the  crowd  began  to  collect,  and  by  half-past  seven 
the  little  room  selected  was  packed  to  its  utmost 
capacity.  On  the  outside  of  the  building,  com- 
pelled to  remain  in  the  street,  was  an  indignant, 
determined  mob,  numbering  more  than  three 
times  as  many  as  were  inside,  surging  backward 
and  forward,  making  night  hideous  with  their 
yells,  blasphemous  remarks  of  impatience,  and 
muttered  threats  of  "getting  even  with  him," 
''having  his  heart's  blood,"  etc.  Both  outside 
and  inside  of  that  rough  log  building  was  gath- 
ered as  motley  and  as  hard-looking  a  crowd  as 
ever  got  together  in  the  mountains  anywhere.  It 
was  a  strange  admixture  of  ignorance,  manhood, 
vice,  virtue,  and  villainy.  Some  of  the  truest 


JUDGE  LYNCH'S  COURT  233 

men  that  ever  lived  stood  there;  and  some  were 
there,  too,  as  deeply  dyed  in  crime,  if  the  truth 
were  known  about  them,  as  Podgett  himself. 
Miners,  merchants,  gamblers  and  Mexicans  were 
mixed  up  promiscuously;  but  their  determined 
faces  and  show  of  revolvers  spoke  more  eloquently 
than  language,  that  "there  wasn't  going  to  be 
any  fooling  in  the  matter." 

The  dingy-looking  room  improvised  for  the  pur- 
pose of  the  court  was  lighted  by  half  a  dozen 
tallow  candles,  which  shed  a  dim,  sallow  haziness 
over  the  piles  of  bacon,  picks,  shovels,  canned 
fruits,  and  other  miners'  goods  stored  there,  and 
upon  the  hard-visaged  men  who  had  assembled 
there  to  mete  out  that  justice  which  they  be- 
lieved had  been  already  too  long  delayed.  The 
red  flames  of»  a  blazing  fire,  made  of  dry  pine- 
knots,  nearly  as  combustible  as  powder,  occa- 
sionally shot  up  the  throat  of  the  huge  chimney 
built  diagonally  across  one  corner  of  the  room, 
whenever  a  fresh  armful  was  thrown  on  by  the 
two  boys  appointed  to  that  office  for  the  time 
being.  When  the  flames  had  exhausted  them- 
selves, and  only  the  embers  glowed  on  the  black 
hearth,  a  glimmering  and  a  confused  mist  seemed 
to  diffuse  itself  over  the  brindled  crowd,  while 
the  fitful  rays  of  the  unsnuffed  candles  threw 


234  TALES   OP  THE   TRAIL 

weird  shadows  on  the  whitewashed  walls  like 
ghosts,  as  if  the  spirits  of  the  murderer's  victims 
had  come  to  be  phantom  witnesses  of  his  agony 
and  despair. 

Old  Sam  Bartlett,  as  usual,  was  chosen  judge 
without  a  dissenting  voice.  A  pile  of  bacon, 
packed  in  gunny-sacks  and  elevated  four  or  five 
feet  above  the  floor,  on  which  Bartlett,  with  his 
legs  dangling  over  the  side,  sat,  constituted  the 
official  bench.  The  jury,  composed  of  the  best 
men  in  town,  sat  on  the  right  of  the  judge,  on 
boxes,  nail-kegs,  sacks,  or  anything  that  came 
handy.  Ike  Podgett,  the  miserable  man  for 
whom  all  this  strange  proceeding  was  instituted, 
crouching  on  the  dirt-begrimed  floor  between  his 
two  determined  guards,  rivets  his  eyes  on  the 
resolute  men  before  him,  distracted)  alternately 
by  hope  and'  despair ;  for  he  now  feels  the  enor- 
mity of  his  guilt,  and  knows  in  his  cowardly 
heart  that  he  deserves  death  right  there,  without 
the  least  show  of  mercy. 

Tom  Bradford  was  appointed  to  prosecute  the 
case,  and  a  young  man  —  Enoch  Green,  who  had 
been  graduated  from  the  law  school  of  Yale  two 
or  three  years  before — was  appointed  to  defend 
Podgett.  In  a  few  pithy  sentences  Judge  Bartlett 
explained  the  object  of  the  gathering,  and  re- 


JUDGE  LYNCH'B  COURT  285 

viewed  the  terrible  crimes  that  had  been  traced 
to  the  accused's  den  in  the  lonely  canon.  He 
pointed  to  the  ghastly  remains  and  charred  frag- 
ments of  human  skeletons  piled  upon  a  rude  table 
in  front  of  the  jury,  which  he  told  them,  in  won- 
derfully impressive  language,  had  been  dug  up,  in 
his  own  presence,  inside  of  Podgett's  cabin  and 
found  among  the  rocks  in  the  vicinity  of  the  ac- 
cursed place.  The  indignant  old  man  grew  almost 
eloquent  in  his  recitation  of  the  prisoner's  dam- 
nable deeds,  and  a  deathlike  stillness  pervaded 
the  crowd  as  the  words  fell  hot  and  earnestly 
from  his  lips,  only  broken  now  and  then  by  the 
convulsive  click  of  a  revolver  as  the  excited  feel- 
ings of  some  pugnacious  individual  intensified 
under  the  judge's  burning  remarks.  But  for  his 
admonition  ofntheir  promise  to  give  the  miserable 
wretch  Podgett  a  trial,  in  all  probability  the  pro- 
ceedings would  have  been  ended  before  Bartlett 
closed  his  remarks. 

Tom  Bradford,  in  his  argument  as  the  legally 
constituted  prosecutor,  merely  reiterated  in  a 
measure  what  the  judge  had  so  forcibly  expressed, 
but  he  scathed  Podgett  in  a  fearful  manner, 
working  up  a  more  exasperated  feeling,  if  that 
were  possible,  than  existed  before;  and  when  he 
had  finished  his  address  he  called  his  witnesses. 


286  TALEB    OP   THE    TRAIL 

The  Doctor  was  first  to  testify ;  but  he  confined 
his  evidence  to  the  character  of  the  charred  bones, 
settling  beyond  the  question  of  possibility  that 
they  were  human. 

Willow  Gulch  Jack  then  appeared,  and  upon 
him  all  eyes  were  concentrated  as  he  related  to 
the  jury  the  simple  story.  He  described  accu- 
rately, with  a  dead  coal  taken  from  the  fireplace, 
on  the  top  of  a  cracker-box,  the  location  of  the 
cabin,  its  surroundings,  and  the  position  in  which 
the  several  bodies  were  found,  particularly  that 
of  Jemuel  Kuaggs,  a  piece  of  whose  blue  shirt  and 
curious  collar-button  he  exhibited,  the  latter  being 
recognized  by  ilearly  every  man  present.  He 
made  a  graphic  if  not  artistic  sketch  with  his 
rude  pencil,  and  its  effect  upon  the  jury  and  spec- 
tators was  manifested  by  expressions  addressed 
to  Podgett  more  emphatic  than  elegant. 

Issachar  Noe  was  the  next  and  last  witness 
called  for  the  prosecution.  He  related  in  an  im- 
pressive and  convincing  manner,  as  chairman  of 
the  committee,  the  interview  with  the  young  wife 
or  mistress  of  Podgett,  which  was  received  by  his 
listeners  with  that  faith  in  its  accuracy  compar- 
able to  the  high  character  of  the  man. 

Then  young  Green,  the  counsel  appointed  for 
the  defense,  though  he  had  not  a  single  particle 


JUDGE  LYNCH'B  COURT  287 

of  evidence  to  offer,  and  convinced  of  the  deep 
villainy  of  his  brutal  and  inhuman  client,  felt  it 
incumbent  to  make  an  appeal  in  his  behalf.  This 
he  did  so  eloquently,  and  built  up  hypotheses  so 
rapidly,  that  some  of  the  rougher  element, 
afraid  that  his  efforts  might  be  effectual,  be- 
came rather  demonstrative,  and  crowded  around 
him  in  a  somewhat  threatening  manner.  They 
were  quieted,  however,  by  a  few  positive  words 
from  old  Tom.  It  was  rather  a  decided  but  not 
particularly  pleasant  compliment  to  the  youth's 
forensic  ability  ! 

When  the  defense  had  closed  its  wonderfully 
ingenious  argument,  the  judge  made  another  of 
his  significant  addresses  in  his  charge  to  the  jury, 
and  a  little  after  midnight  he  submitted  the  case 
to  them. 

An  awful  silence  prevailed  for  a  few  moments 
while  the  twelve  men  put  their  heads  together 
and  consulted  in  a  low  tone  without  leaving  their 
seats.  Presently  they  all  rose,  and  their  spokes- 
man, turning  to  the  judge,  uttered  only  one  word : 
"GUILTY." 

Then,  at  a  sign  from  stern  old  Sam,  who  imme- 
diately came  down  from  his  pile  of  bacon,  the  two 
determined-faced  miners,  with  Podgett  between 
them  almost  paralyzed  with  fear,  walked  out  into 


288 


TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 


WITH    PODQETT    BETWEEN   THEM." 


JUDGE  LYNCH  8  COURT 


239 


the  night,  followed  by  the  crowd,  who  fired  off 
their  pistols,  and  made  the  very  hills  tremble 
with  their  demoniacal  yells. 

The  early  morning  sun,  as  its  rays  entered  the 
narrow  valley,  shone  upon  the  lifeless  body  of 
Podgett,  where,  suspended  by  the  neck  from  the 
limb  of  a  huge  oak  tree  on  the  main  street  of 
Whooping  Hollow,  it  slowly  oscillated  at  the 
sport  of  the  warm  south  breeze. 


THE  WOOING  OF  AH-KEY-NES-TOU. 


T  a  period  late  in  the  twen- 
ties, the  Mandans,  one  of 
the  most  intelligent  tribes 
of  Indians  on  the  conti- 
nent, were  almost  swept 
out  of  existence  by  the 
small-pox.  The  story 
comes  down  to  us  in  the 
form  of  a  tradition  among 
other  savages,  but  it  is  nev- 
ertheless true,  as  there  are 
a  few  old  trappers  yet  liv- 
ing who  remember  all  the 
particulars  of  the  event. 
The  Mandans  resided  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
mouth  of  the  Yellowstone,  where  their  villages 
were  permanent  for  untold  centuries,  and  at  the 
time  of  the  visitation  of  the  fell  disease  which 
nearly  annihilated  them  they  comprised  about 
three  thousand  families. 

Shortly  after   sunrise,  one   morning   in   June, 
1828,  a  young  white  man  was  reclining  idly  on 

240 


MANDAN   CHIEF. 


THE    WOOING    OF    AH-KEY-NE8-TOU  241 

one  of  the  grassy  knolls  overlooking  the  village, 
the  great  river,  and  the  vast  prairie  stretching 
westwardly  from  its  bank.  He  was  intently  watch- 
ing certain  movements  in  the  town,  where  the 
warriors  were  preparing  for  a  grand  hunt.  In 
the  distance,  the  buffalo  could  be  seen  grazing  in 
immense  herds,  whose  presence  was  the  cause  of 
the  commotion  among  the  Indians.  Soon  he  saw 
hundreds  of  warriors,  armed  with  bows,  their  quiv- 
ers filled  with  arrows,  emerge  from  the  shadow  of 
their  lodges,  and  in  a  long  line  ride  out  toward 
the  unsuspecting  animals  so  peacefully  feeding. 
The  old  men  and  squaws  alone  remained  in  the 
village,  and  they  were  gathered  in  anxious  groups, 
applauding  the  husbands,  sons  and  lovers  as  they 
went  proudly  forth  to  battle  for  that  subsistence 
which  was  their  only  dependence  when  the  snows 
of  winter  filled  the  now  sunny  valley. 

A  few  moments  after  the  warriors  had  disap- 
peared in  the  purple  morning  mist  of  the  prairies, 
a  bevy  of  lightly  dressed  dusky  maidens,  in  all 
their  savage  beauty,  wandered  toward  the  sandy 
margin  of  the  Yellowstone  to  indulge  in  their 
favorite  amusement  of  swimming  in  its  clear 
sparkling  tide, —  for  that  stream  in  summer,  like 
a  great  brook,  ripples  and  babbles  over  the 
rounded  quartz  pebbles  which  compose  its  bed, 
-  16 


242 


TALES    OP    THE    TRAIL 


with  as  rhythmical  a  flow  as  the  tiniest  rivulet  in 
the  recesses  of  the  mountains. 

It  was  this  group  of  Indian  maidens  that  now 
attracted  the  gaze  of  the  young  stranger;    one 


among  them  particularly,  not  yet  seventeen,  but 
more  beautiful  than  the  others,  walked  like  some 
society  queen  on  the  beach  at  Newport.  In  a  few 
moments  she  purposely  separated  herself  from 
the  rest  and  directed  her  steps  toward  the  mound 


THE   WOOING   OF   AH-KEY-NE8-TOU  248 

on  which  the  young  man  was  lying.  He  smiled 
when  he  saw  her  evident  intention,  and  a  flush  of 
pride  swept  over  his  bronzed  cheeks  as  he  came 
down  to  the  base  of  the  elevation  to  await  her 
approach. 

The  young  girl  thus  seeking  the  intruder  was 
the  affianced  bride  of  ' '  In-ne-cose ' '  (  The  Iron 
Horn),  principal  chief  of  the  Maudans —  old 
enough  to  be  her  grandfather.  She,  the  hand- 
some Indian  maiden,  was  known  as  "Ah-key- 
iies-tou  "  (The  Red  Rose),  and  was  the  pride  of 
the  Mandan  nation. 

The  young  man,  who  had  with  impatience 
waited  for  her  coming  all  the  morning,  was  of 
course  an  American;  an  incipient  doctor  who 
had  enlisted  in  the  service  of  the  great  Fur  Com- 
pany a  year  before,  whose  agency  was  at  the 
junction  of  the  Missouri  and  Yellowstone  rivers, 
near  the  Mandau  village.  He  had  imagined  him- 
self in  love  many  times  in  St.  Louis,  where  was 
his  home,  but  was  now  satisfied  that  he  had 
really  never  felt  the  tender  passion  until  he  saw 
Ah-key-nes-tou  at  the  general  store  one  day,  some 
months  before  the  story  of  their  fate  commences. 

When  he  discovered  that  the  beautiful  girl  was 
destined  to  be  the  fifth  wife  of  the  old  chief 
In-ue-cose  —  a  cross,  ugly  Indian,  and  moreover 


244  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

not  a  full-blooded  Mandan — he  took  pity  on  her, 
loved  her  more  than  ever,  and  resolved  to  win  her 
for  himself.  Ah-key-nes-tou  had  often  admitted 
to  the  "White  Medicine,"  as  the  band  of  Man- 
dans  called  the  youthful  doctor,  that  she  had 
a  decided  predilection  for  him;  that  she  could 
never  love  the  old  chief;  but  as  her  father  had 
been  paid  for  her  by  the  present  of  two  horses, 
she  felt  bound  to  the  bargain  according  to  Indian 
usage. 

The  doctor  in  a  dozen  interviews  Had  told  Ah- 
key-nes-tou  of  his  deep  love ;  that  he  was  willing 
to  leave  his  home  forever  for  her  sake,  and,  mar- 
rying her,  woufil  become  an  adopted  son  of  the 
tribe.  But  poor  "Ah -key,"  as  her  white  admirer 
always  called  her,  considered  herself  in  honor 
bound  to  become  the  wife  of  In-iie-cose;  conse- 
quently both  the  youth  and  the  maiden  were  per- 
fectly miserable. 

In  a  few  moments  the  doctor  and  Ah-key  met  at 
the  foot  of  the  mound,  where,  without  speaking, 
they  seated  themselves  on  the  grass  with  which 
the  ground  was  covered.  After  looking  at  her 
silently  for  some  time,  he  took  the  maiden's  hand 
and  said : 

"  It  is  a  long  time  since  Ah-key  has  come  to  her 
white  lover.  I  have  been  very  sad ;  the  sun  shone 


THE    WOOING    OF    AH-KEY-NEB-TOU  245 

brightly,  but  I  could  not  see  its  brightness,  for 
you  were  far  away.  I  learn  that  In-ue-cose  in- 
tends soon  to  take  you  for  his  fifth  wife.  I  want 
but  one ;  you  are  that  one ;  iny  lodge  is  empty  — 
I  cannot  live  without  you." 

The  Indian  maiden  trembled  for  a  moment, 
then  answered:  "Ah-key-nes-tou's  heart  is  small, 
but  it  is  very  red.  My  father  has  given  me  to  the 
great  chief.  Two  lovers  have  come  to  me;  my 
heart  can  hold  but  one.  I  see  in  it  the  face  of 
my  young  White  Medicine  only;  but  a  river  as 
wide  as  the  Missouri  parts  us.  In-iie-cose  has 
given  two  horses  for  me ;  iny  father  has  spoken ; 
I  must  be  the  fifth  wife  of  the  great  chief.  What 
can  I  do?" 

The  idea  of  Ah-key-nes-tou  becoming  the  bride 
of  any  other  than  himself,  made  the  young  doctor 
almost  wild,  and  he  would  have  given  vent  to 
some  very  emphatic  language  had  not  the  girl  at 
that  instant  said  to  him:  "There  is  a  snake  in 
the  grass  that  the  pale-face  does  not  see,"  and  she 
pointed  with  her  tapering  index-finger  to  a  spot 
not  far  off,  where1  the  weeds  and  sunflower-stalks 
seemed  to  move  by  some  other  power  than  the 
wind.  It  was  In-ne-cose  himself,  who  had  stealth- 
ily followed  and  was  watching  Ah-key-nes-tou. 
"  You  must  go  to  the  village  and  eat  with  my  peo- 


246 


TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 


pie  to-day,"  continued  the  trembling  maiden,  as 
she  looked  imploringly  toward  her  lover. 

The  doctor  was  now  satisfied  they  had  a  dan- 
gerous spy  upon  their  actions,  and  grinding  his 
teeth,  hastened  to  obey  her  injunction  at  once. 
He  dared  not  kiss  Ah-key  now,  but  they  exchanged 
glances, —  a  language  that  is  understood  by  all 


MANDAN  CANOE. 

who  love,  whether  white,  black,  or  red;  and  as 
she  walked  away  he  shouldered  his  heavy  rifle  and 
ascended  the  knoll  again,  where  he  stood  erect  for 
a  few  minutes  so  that  the  whole  village  might  see 
him.  Remaining  where  he  stood  until  Ah-key- 
nes-tou  had  rejoined  the  group  of  her  friends  on 
the  beach,  where  they  were  preparing  for  their 


THE    WOOING    OF   AH-KEY-NEB-TOU  247 

bath,  the  doctor  descended,  and  moved  quietly 
toward  the  nearest  group  of  lodges. 

First,  he  made  a  visit  to  that  of  a  subordinate 
chief  who  was  friendly  to  both  Ah-key-nes-tou  and 
himself,  looking  with  decided  favor  on  his  efforts 
to  win  the  girl.  Then  he  went  to  the  lodge  of 
Ah-key-nes-tou's  father.  He  was  received  very 
kindly,  invited  to  breakfast,  and  when  that  was 
disposed  of,  the  pipe  was  passed  around,  ail  evi- 
dence of  the  warm  feeling  the  Indian  entertained 
for  his  white  guest.  After  some  time  devoted  to 
the  fragrant  fumes  of  the  "kin-ne-ke-uick,"  the 
doctor  opened  up  the  subject  always  nearest  his 
heart — his  desire  to  marry  the  old  savage's  daugh- 
ter. The  father  of  the  girl  freely  admitted  that 
he  should  be  highly  honored  by  such  an  alliance, 
but  that  his  word  had  been  pledged  to  the  ' '  Iron 
Horn,"  and  as  presents  had  been  accepted  from 
him,  the  matter  must  be  considered  as  settled; 
that  the  tribe  would  never  condone  any  deceit  on 
his  part — he  could  not  break  his  word. 

The  doctor  agreed  with  his  honorable  host,  that 
the  difficulties  were  great,  according  to  the  Indian 
code  of  honor;  nevertheless,  he  believed  that  the 
thing  could  be  so  arranged  that  it  would  be  ac- 
ceptable to  all  concerned.  He  then  informed  the 
old  man  that  a  steamboat  (or  "fire-ship,"  as  the 


THE    WOOING    OF    AH-KEY-NEB-TOU  249 

savages  called  it,)  would  arrive  at  the  village 
that  evening.  On  it  were  his  trunk,  tent,  and  all 
his  belongings ;  he  proposed  to  take  up  his  abode 
with  the  tribe.  To  this,  War  Eagle,  the  father  of 
Ah-key-nes-tou,  cordially  gave  his  approval ;  sug- 
gesting that  the  mound  from  which  the  villagers 
had  first  seen  him.  that  morning  would  be  a  suit- 
able place  to  establish  his  lodge. 

Just  before  sunset  the  guns  of  the  steamboat 
were  heard  in  the  village  as  she  rounded  a  sharp 
point  near  her  proposed  landing-place.  Immedi- 
ately the  entire  population,  men,  women  and 
children,  flocked  to  the  beach  to  see  the  wonder- 
ful canoe  that  moved  without  oars.  They  re- 
garded it  as  a  monster,  gazing  upon  it  with  fear 
and  trembling  every  time  it  came  up  the  river. 

Early  the  next  morning,  with  the  assistance  of 
some  of  his  Mandan  friends  the  doctor  landed  his 
traps  and  erected  his  tent  on  the  spot  designated 
by  War  Eagle.  His  equipments  consisted  of  a 
neat  camp  bed,  rich  blankets,  arms,  ammunition, 
and  a  medicine  chest,  together  with  hundreds  of 
little  trinkets  pleasing  to  the  taste  of  the  Indians 
of  both  sexes. 

The  enthusiastic  young  doctor  had  hardly  got- 
ten his  things  in  shipshape  before  a  messenger 
from  In-ne-cose  arrived,  demanding  his  presence 


250  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

at  the  council  lodge.  He  obeyed  the  summons 
from  the  head  chief,  of  course,  but  he  could  not 
divine  why  he  had  been  sent  for  so  suddenly,  just 
as  he  had  fixed  himself  comfortably  in  his  new 
home.  Reaching  the  lodge  where  the  chiefs  and 
head  men  were  assembled,  he  found  there  also 
many  women  and  children  of  the  tribe,  evidently 
expectant  of  some  serious  matter  to  be  discussed. 

In-ne-cose  sat  in  the  center  of  his  counselors,  on 
a  magnificently  embroidered  buffalo  robe,  smok- 
ing his  great  pipe  trimmed  with  eagle-feathers,  as 
stoical  as  an  Egyptian  mummy,  excepting  that 
around  his  mouth  there  played  a  smile  of  devilish 
import. 

Standing  near  her  father,  who  had  also  been 
summoned  to  the  council,  was  Ah-key-nes-tou, 
dusky  and  beautiful  in  her  savage  grace,  with  a 
look  of  pride  on  her  countenance ;  for  was  it  not 
certain  that  she  was  to  be  the  subject  for  discus- 
sion by  the  suddenly  assembled  warriors  ? 

Wrapped  around  the  shoulders  of  the  stern  In- 
ne-cose  was  a  curiously  wrought  Mexican  blanket, 
the  sight  of  which,  as  the  doctor's  eyes  fell  upon 
it,  caused  his  whole  frame  to  tremble.  He 
turned  pale,  and  his  entire  aspect  was  that  of 
fear  and  deep  solicitude ;  but  not  a  word  did  he 
utter. 


THE    WOOING    OF    AH-KEY-NE8-TOU  251 

As  soon  as  those  who  were  called  to  the  council 
had  seated  themselves,  In-ne-cose  rose  and  said : 

"A  pale-faced  medicine-man  has  fixed  his  lodge 
by  those  of  the  Mandans.  We  have  plenty  of 
ground  here;  there  are  great  herds  of  buffalo 
roaming  over  the  prairie,  which  the  Great  Spirit 
has  sent  to  furnish  food  for  his  people ;  the  rich 
young  warrior  with  a  white  skin  is  welcome  to 
his  share  of  these.  His  heart  is  red,  and  he  is  the 
friend  of  the  Mandans.  But  he  is  alone ;  he  has 
no  squaw  to  eook  his  meat  or  saddle  his  horse ;  no 
one  to  make  his  bed  of  the  soft  skins  of  the  buf- 
falo ;  no  one  to  shape  the  moccasins  for  his  feet ; 
he  has  no  wife  to  bring  home  the  game  that  he 
kills.  He  cannot  get  a  slave  to  do  all  these 
things,  for  we  are  at  peace  with  every  nation; 
there  is  no  war.  He  must  therefore  take  a  wife 
from  among  the  young  women  of  the  Mandans ; 
there  are  many.  He  can  buy  two  wives,  for  he 
is  rich;  let  him  choose  when  Iii-ne-cose  takes 
Ah-key-nes-tou.  I  have  said." 

The  doctor  immediately  arose  from  his  place, 
full  of  indignation  and  disgust  at  the  old  chief's 
cunning.  Familiar  with  the  language  of  the 
tribe,  he  addressed  the  assembled  warriors  in. 
their  own  tongue.  All  eyes  were  riveted  on  him, 
for  the  majority  of  those  present,  and  many  who 


252  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

were  absent,  were  in  perfect  accord  with  him  in 
his  honorable  efforts  to  win  Ah-key-nes-tou  from 
the  "  Iron  Horn,"  whom  they  feared  but  did  not 
respect. 

"  In-ne-cose  is  a  dog !  "  boldly  began  the  doctor. 
The  chiefs  gazed  upon  him  with  wonderment,  but 
without  betraying  any  emotion.  "The  Great 
Spirit  is  angry,"  continued  the  orator.  "In-ne- 
cose  is  a  vulture  among  eagles,  and  would  carry 
off  the  prettiest  eaglet.  But  the  Great  Spirit 
says  that  it  shall  not  be  so.  Before  the  sun  goes 
down  seven  times  more,  In-ne-cose  will  be  dead  1 
He  will  take  with  him  to  the  happy  hunting- 
grounds  many  Mandan  warriors;  many  young 
women  and  children  —  perhaps  Ah-key-nes-tou;  " 
and  the  young  man  was  deeply  affected.  He 
merely  added  the  chief's  own  words,  "I  have 
said,"  then  sat  down. 

In  a  few  moments,  when  his  feelings  had  par- 
tially regained  their  normal  state,  he  rose  again 
to  explain  to  the  now  bewildered  and  wondering 
warriors  and  women  what  he  meant  by  the  awful 
prophecy  he  had  just  uttered.  He  told  them  that 
on  the  passage  of  the  steamboat  up  the  river,  only 
two  days  before  she  had  landed  at  their  village,  a 
Mexican  merchant  on  board  had  died  of  a  fright- 
ful disease,  the  smallpox !  He  explained  how  ter- 


THE    WOOING    OF    AH-KEY-NEB-TOU  253 

ribly  contagious  it  was  to  those  who  were  not 
guarded  against  it  by  a  great  medicine  operation 
performed  by  the  white  man.  That  the  merchant 
who  had  died  of  the  disease  possessed  a  blanket, 
upon  which  he  had  breathed  his  last.  In-ne-cose 
had  stolen  that  blanket  off  the  boat,  and  had  it 
now  wrapped  around  him.  He  told  them  that 
every  Indian  who  went  near  him,  who  touched 
that  blanket,  or  even  breathed  the  same  air 
where  he  sat,  would  die  unless  with  his  medicine 
he  could  save  them.  The  doctor  continued : 

"The  Great  Spirit  is  very  angry.  Darkness  is 
coming  over  the  lodges  of  the  Maiidaus.  In  less 
than  one  moon,  perhaps,  not  a  lodge  will  be  full. 
You  love  Ah-key-nes-tou ;  let  her  go  to  the  lodge 
of  the  pale-faced  Medicine  Man,  and  he  will  go  to 
that  of  the  '  Iron  Horn ' — but  I  fear  it  is  too  late." 

By  the  time  the  doctor  had  completed  his  re- 
marks so  fraught  with  portent,  all  those  assem- 
bled within  the  council  lodge  rapidly  moved 
themselves  from  the  presence  of  In-ne-cose.  He 
however  sat  stoically  smoking,  apparently  not 
the  least  disturbed  by  the  fearful  predictions  of 
the  doctor.  In  a  few  moments  the  old  chief  rose 
again,  and  thus  addressed  himself  to  the  pre- 
sumptuous white  man: 

"The  Great  Spirit  lives  in  the  clouds.     If  he 


254  TALES    OF    THE    TRAIL 

wills  that  all  my  people  shall  go  to  him,  they 
must  obey.  My  little  ones  slept  on  the  mystery 
blanket  last  night;  they  awoke  this  morning  and 
were  well.  Will  the  Bad  Spirit  touch  them  ?  " 

Then  drawing  the  "  death  -  blanket "  closer 
around  him,  In-ne-cose  apparently  defied  the 
evil  effects  of  the  wrap.  But  shortly  afterward 
his  dusky  skin  showed  a  slight  pallor  and  he 
seemed  strangely  agitated.  He  again  spoke, 
though  this  time  in  a  disturbed  voice,  address- 
ing himself,  as  before,  directly  to  the  doctor: 

"The  chief  of  the  Mandaus  is  rich.  He  has 
four  squaws  already.  If  the  young  pale-face  will 
drive  away  the  Bad  Spirit  from  the  little  ones  of 
In-ne-cose,  he  may  take  Ah-key-nes-tou  for  his 
wife." 

The  doctor,  delighted  at  these  words  of  the 
head  chief,  grasped  the  old  man's  hand,  and  told 
him  that  he  would  do  his  best  to  save  the  chil- 
dren. Then,  ordering  Ah-key-nes-tou's  brother 
to  lead  his  sister  to  his  lodge  on  the  knoll,  he 
told  another  Indian  to  go  and  bring  his  medicine 
chest  to  the  lodge  of  In-ne-cose.  He  then  went 
to  the  chief's  lodge  himself,  but  on  examining 
the  little  ones  discovered  it  was  too  late  for  vac- 
cination :  the  blanket  had  done  its  work  ! 

The  next  day  the  pestilence  broke  out  in  a  huu- 


THE   WOOING   OP   AH-KEY-NEB-TOU  255 

dred  lodges.  Very  soon  the  Indians  were  not  able 
to  bury  their  dead — the  latter  outnumbering  the 
living.  In  less  than  a  month,  out  of  three  thou- 
sand families  only  eight  survived.  Where  the 
Mandan  village  once  stood,  even  as  late  as  thirty 
years  ago  the  traces  of  over  eight  thousand  graves 
could  be  seen.  It  was  an  awful  visitation,  almost 
annihilating  a  whole  nation  1 

In-ne-cose,  as  predicted  by  the  doctor,  was  the 
first  to  die.  Ah-key-nes-tou  was  saved  by  prompt 
vaccination.  The  doctor  took  her  to  St.  Louis, 
where  they  were  married,  the  ceremony  being 
performed  by  that  grand  and  good  old  Catholic 
priest,  Father  DeSmet,  who  was  stationed  there 
at  the  time,  and  whose  memory  is  kept  green  by 
every  tribe  of  Indians  on  the  continent.  Ah-key- 
nes-tou  was  educated  at  one  of  the  convents  in 
the  Mound  City,  became  the  pet  of  society,  and 
her  worthy  husband  a  State  Senator. 


CARSON'S  "  FIRST  INDIAN." 


HAVE  been  requested  by 
several  parties  to  offer 
something  of  Kit  Car- 
son's early  days  on  the 
Plains.  Having  been  in- 
timate with  that  famous 
man  during  the  declin- 
ing years  of  his  eventful 
life,  and  having  heard 
from  his  own  lips  many 
of  the  adventures  of  his 
youth,  while  sitting 
around  the  camp-fire  on 
several  little  ' '  outings  ' ' 
with  him  and  Maxwell 
in  the  mountains  of  New 
Mexico,  I  have  chosen  for  my  sketch  Kit's  first 
shot  at  an  Indian. 

That  portion  of  the  great  central  plains  of 
Kansas  which  radiates  from  the  Pawnee  Fork 
as  its  center,  including  the  bend  of  the  Arkansas, 
where  that  river  makes  a  sudden  sweep  to  the 

256 


KIT  CARSON. 


CARSON'S  FIRST  INDIAN  257 

southeast,  and  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Wal- 
nut,—  in  all  an  area  of  nearly  a  thousand  square 
miles, — was  from  time  immemorial  a  sort  of  de- 
batable ground,  occupied  by  none  of  the  tribes, 
but  claimed  by  all  to  hunt  in,  for  it  was  a  famous 
resort  of  the  buffalo. 

None  of  the  various  bands  of  savages  had  the 
temerity  to  attempt  its  permanent  occupancy,  for 
whenever  they  met  there — which  was  of  frequent 
occurrence — on  their  annual  hunt  for  their  win- 
ter's supply  of  meat,  a  bloody  battle  was  sure  to 
ensue.  The  region  referred  to  has  perhaps  been 
the  scene  of  more  sanguinary  conflicts  than  any 
other  portion  of  the  continent.  Particularly  was 
this  the  case  when  the  Pawnees,  who  claimed  the 
country,  met  their  hereditary  enemies,  the  Chey- 
ennes. 

Through  this  region,  hugging  the  margin  of 
the  silent  Arkansas,  and  running  under  the  very 
shadow  of  Pawnee  Rock,  the  old  Santa  Fe  trail 
wound  its  course,  now  the  actual  road-bed  of  the 
Santa  Fe  Railway, — so  closely  are  the  past  and 
present  transcontinental  highways  cemented  at 
this  point:  one,  a  mere  memory;  the  other,  one 
of  the  great  railways  now  spanning  the  continent. 

Who,  among  the  bearded  and  grizzled  old  fel- 
lows like  myself,  has  forgotten  that  most  exciting 
—17 


258  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

and  sensational  (at  least  it  was  so  to  my  boyish 
mind)  of  all  the  miserably  executed  illustrations 
in  the  geographies  of  their  school-days  fifty  years 
ago — "  Santa  Fe  Traders  Attacked  by  Indians  "  ? 
The  picture  located  the  scene  of  the  fight  at  Paw- 
nee Rock,  which  formed  a  sort  of  a  nondescript 
shadow  in  the  background  of  a  crudely  drawn 
representation  of  the  dangers  of  the  trail. 

I  witnessed  a  spirited  encounter  between  a  small 
band  of  the  Cheyennes  and  Pawnees  in  the  fall  of 
1867.  It  occurred  on  the  open  prairie,  just  north 
of  the  mouth  of  the  Walnut,  about  four  miles 
from  where  the  city  of  Great  Bend  now  stands. 
Both  tribes  were  hunting  the  buffalo,  and  when 
each  by  accident  discovered  the  presence  of  the 
other,  with  a  demoniacal  yell  that  fairly  shook 
the  sand-dunes  of  the  Arkansas  they  rushed  at 
once  into  the  shock  of  battle. 

The  Pawnees  were  of  course  friendly  to  the 
whites,  and  had  permission  from  their  agent  to 
leave  their  reservation  in  the  valley  of  the  Neo- 
sho,  near  Council  Grove.  At  that  particular 
time,  for  a  wonder,  the  Cheyennes  too  were  tem- 
porarily at  peace  with  the  Government.  So  I  had 
nothing  to  do  but  passively  witness  the  savage 
combat. 

Both  bands  of  the  savages  soon  exhausted  their 


CARSON'S  FIRST  INDIAN  259 

ammunition,  and  then  the  chiefs  of  the  contend- 
ing factions  appealed  to  me  most  earnestly  to 
supply  them  with  more,  of  which  there  was  plenty 
at  Fort  Zarah,  only  half  a  mile  away.  I  was 
necessarily  forced  to  remain  neutral,  but  my  sym- 
pathies were  with  the  "under  dog"  in  the  fight, 
— which  happened  to  be  the  Cheyennes,  whom 
the  Pawnees  drove  off  disgraced  and  discomfitted. 

That  evening,  in  a  grove  of  timber  on  the  Wal- 
nut, the  victors  had  a  grand  dance  in  which 
scalps,  ears  and  fingers  of  their  enemy,  suspended 
by  strings  to  poles,  were  important  accessories  to 
their  weird  orgies  around  the  huge  camp-fires. 

How  true  it  is,  as  Longfellow  declares:  "The 
thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts."  I 
remember  that  map  in  the  geographies  of  fifty 
years  ago  (already  referred  to)  on  which  was  de- 
picted "the  Great  American  Desert,"  over  which 
I  pored  in  the  little  log  school-house  at  the  cross- 
roads in  the  country,  near  my  home  in  one  of  the 
Eastern  States.  How  distinctly  I  remember  see- 
ing Bent's  old  fort  marked  on  the  western  edge  of 
the  "Desert"  on  that  quaint  map.  Then,  in  the 
"  long,  long  thoughts  "  of  my  boyhood's  fancy,  it 
seemed  to  me  to  be  away  out  on  the  confines  of 
another  world,  for  then  I  had  never  been  thirty 
miles  away  from  the  farm  on  which  I  was  reared. 


260  TALES   OF  THE   TRAIL 

I  have  slept  under  the  old  fort's  hospitable  roof 
many  times  since,  but  long  before  the  era  of  rail- 
roads, where,  gathered  around  its  huge  aflobe  fire- 
places, up  whose  cavernous  throats  the^yellow 
flames  crackled  and  roared,  were  the  mighty  men 
of  the  Ute  nation,  with  Kit  Carson,  Lucien  B. 
Maxwell,  Bent,  and  other  famous  characters  of 
the  border,  conversing  in  the  beautiful  but  silent 
sign-language,  that  is  so  perfect  in  its  symboliza- 
tion.  Of  those  who  were  present  then,  all  but 
myself  are  long  since  dead,  and  the  scenes  of  those 
days  are  only  hidden  pictures  in  the  storehouse  of 
my  brain,  to  bg  called  back  in  the  quiet  of  the 
gloaming,  with  their  host  of  accompanying  pleas- 
ant memories  of  a  shadowy  past. 

In  my  boyhood  days  I  honestly  believed  that 
Kit  Carson  was  at  least  eight  feet  tall;  that  he 
always  dressed  in  the  traditional  buckskin,  fringed 
at  the  seams,  and  beaded  and  "porcupined"  all 
over;  that  he  carried  innumerable  eleven-inch 
bowie-knives,  his  rifle  of  huge  dimensions  —  so 
large  and  heavy  that,  like  Warwick's  sword,  no 
ordinary  man  could  even  lift  it.  I  believed  his 
regular  meal  to  be  an  entire  buffalo,  which  he 
raised  with  both  hands  to  his  mouth,  and  picked 
its  immense  bones  as  easily  as  the  average  mortal 
does  a  chicken's  wing,  and  that  he  drank  out  of 


CARSON'S  FIRST  INDIAN  261 

nothing  smaller  than  a  river.  Boys,  probably  by 
the  thousands,  had  the  same  "long  thoughts," 
for  boy-nature  is  the  same  everywhere. 

Kit  Carson  was  really  a  man  under  the  aver- 
age height,  rather  delicate  -  looking  in  physical 
make-up  than  otherwise,  but  in  fact,  wiry  and 
quick,  though  cautious,  possessing  nerves  of  steel 
and  an  imperturbability  in  the  moment  of  su- 
preme danger  that  was  marvelous  to  contemplate. 

He  was  fond  of  cards  and  horse-racing,  a  famous 
rider  in  his  younger  days,  having  entered  the  lists 
in  many  a  contest  with  the  Indians,  who  are  gen- 
erally passionately  devoted  to  trials  of  speed  be- 
tween rival  ponies.  I  have  myself  seen,  in  the 
long-ago,  as  many  as  eight  hundred  horses  bet  by 
contending  bands,  whose  wealth  was  counted  by 
the  number  of  animals  they  possessed. 

Kit  once,  years  before  he  became  famous,  fought 
a  duel,  mounted ;  he  escaped  with  a  bullet-wound 
behind  his  left  ear,  the  scar  of  which  he  carried 
to  his  grave,  but  he  winged  his  equally  youthful 
antagonist  in  the  quarrel. 

Kit's  nature  was  composed  of  the  noblest  of  at- 
tributes: he  was  brave,  but  never  reckless  like 
Ouster;  unselfish,  a  veritable  exponent  of  Chris- 
tian altruism ;  and  as  true  to  his  friends  as  steel 
to  the  magnet. 


262  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

He  died  in  1868,  at  Fort  Lyon,  on  the  Arkansas, 
while  on  his  way  to  Fort  Harker  to  make  me  a 
long -promised  visit.  For  some  time  after  his 
passing  away  he  rested  peacefully  under  the 
gnarled  and  knotted  old  cottonwoods  which  fringe 
the  river — that  Nile  of  America — in  the  vicinity 
of  Lyon.  Later,  his  remains  were  moved  to  Taos, 
his  former  New  Mexico  home,  where  an  appro- 
priate monument  was  erected  over  them ;  in  the 
plaza  of  quaint  and  curious  Santa  Fe,  too,  there 
is  a  massive  cenotaph  which  records  his  deeds  and 
name.  , 

Kit  was  born  in  Kentucky,  on  the  24th  of  De- 
cember, 1809.  While  a  mere  infant  his  parents 
emigrated  to  what  is  now  Howard  county,  Mis- 
souri, which  at  that  early  date  was  literally  a 
"  howling  wilderness  "  filled  with  "  varmints  "  of 
all  kinds. 

There,  as  soon  as  he  was  big  enough  to  lift 
a  rifle,  the  old-fashioned  patch-and-ball,  flint- 
lock affair,  the  embryo  great  frontiersman  began 
to  hunt,  and  by  the  time  he  was  fifteen  he  became 
the  most  expert  shot  in  the  whole  settlement. 
He  could  hit  the  eye  of  a  squirrel  every  time  he 
pulled  the  trigger,  or  it  didn't  count. 

At  this  period,  however,  his  father  apprenticed 
him  to  a  saddler,  with  whom  he  worked  faithfully 


CARBON'S  FIRST  INDIAN 

for  two  years,  spending  all  his  leisure  moments 
in  the  primitive  forest,  hunting  bear,  deer,  and 
other  large  game  that  abounded  there. 

In  two  years  more,  when  Kit  had  reached  the  age 
of  seventeen,  the  trade  with  Santa  Fe  began,  with 
its  initial  point  in  the  hamlet  of  Old  Franklin,  in 
Howard  county,  near  where  Kit  lived  (from  which 
place  it  did  not  move  to  Independence  until  1836). 

In  the  late  spring  of  1826,  Col.  St.  Vrain,  a 
prominent  agent  of  the  great  fur  companies,  (a 
grand  old  gentleman  whom  I  knew  intimately,) 
arrived  at  Franklin  and  made  preparations  to  fit 
out  a  large  caravan  destined  for  the  far-off  Rocky 
Mountains,  loaded  with  goods  to  be  used  in  trad- 
ing with  the  Indians  for  the  skins  of  the  valuable 
fur-bearing  animals  of  that  remote  and  but  little 
known  region. 

Kit,  as  green  as  any  boy  of  his  age  who  had 
never  been  twenty  miles  from  his  home,  was  in- 
fatuated by  the  stories  told  by  the  old  trappers  of 
the  Colonel's  outfit,  regarding  the  wonderful  game 
in  the  land  to  which  they  were  going,  and  he  was 
easily  persuaded  to  join  the  caravan  in  the  capac- 
ity of  hunter,  his  prowess  with  the  rifle  having 
reached  the  ears  of  the  major-domo  of  the  train. 
Kit  ran  away  from  home,  I  suspect,  though  he 
never  told  me  so. 


264  TALES    OP   THE    TRAIL 

The  expedition  was  composed  of  twenty -six 
mule-wagons,  some  loose  stock,  and  forty -two 
men.  In  addition  to  his  employment  as  hunter, 
young  Kit  was  to  help  drive  the  extra  animals, 
take  his  turn  in  standing  guard,  and  make  him- 
self generally  useful. 

The  party  marched  wearily  along,  day  after 
day,  Kit  proving  his  right  to  the  reputation  of 
being  a  mighty  hunter,  without  any  adventure 
worthy  of  recording,  until  they  arrived  at  the 
Walnut,  where  they  discovered  the  first  signs  of 
Indians.  They  had  halted  for  that  day;  the 
mules  were  unharnessed,  the  camp-fires  lighted, 
and  the  men  about  to  indulge  in  their  ever- 
welcome  black  coffee,  when  they  were  suddenly 
surprised  by  half  a  dozen  Pawnees,  who,  mounted 
on  their  ponies,  hideously  painted  and  uttering 
the  most  diabolical  yells,  rushed  out  of  the  tall 
grass  on  the  Arkansas  bottom,  and  swinging  their 
buffalo  robes  attempted  to  stampede  the  animals 
of  the  caravan. 

Every  man  in  the  outfit  was  on  his  feet  in  an 
instant  with  his  rifle  in  hand,  so  that  all  the  im- 
pudent savages  got  for  their  pains  were  a  few 
harmless  shots  as  they  scampered  back  to  the 
river  and  over  into  the  sand-hills  out  of  sight. 

The  next  night  the  caravan  camped  at  the  foot 


CARBON'S  FIEST  INDIAN  265 

of  Pawnee  Rock,  and  of  course,  after  the  experi- 
ence of  the  afternoon  before,  every  precaution 
was  employed  to  prevent  another  surprise.  The 
wagons  were  formed  into  a  corral,  so  that  the 
animals  might  be  protected  in  the  event  of  a  pro- 
longed fight  with  the  savages.  The  guards  were 
instructed  to  be  doubly  vigilant,  and  every  man 
slept  with  his  rifle  on  his  arm,  for  the  old  Colonel 
assured  them  the  savages  would  never  rest  content 
with  their  defeat  on  the  Walnut,  but  true  to  their 
thieving  propensities  and  their  desire  for  revenge, 
would  seize  the  first  favorable  opportunity  to  re- 
new the  attack. 

All  this  was  a  new  and  strange  experience  to 
young  Carson,  who  had  never  before  seen  any  In- 
dians except  a  few  friendly  Shawnees  and  Osages. 
Of  the  methods  and  tactics  of  the  wild  Plains 
tribes,  he  literally  knew  nothing. 

When  everything  was  arranged  for  the  night, 
Kit  was  posted  as  a  sentinel  immediately  in  front 
of  the  south  face  of  the  Rock,  nearly  two  hundred 
yards  from  the  wagon  corral.  The  other  men  who 
were  on  guard  were  posted  on  top,  and  on  the  open 
prairie  on  either  side. 

About  half -past  eleven,  as  near  as  he  could  guess, 
Kit  told  me,  one  of  the  guards  yelled  out  "In- 
dians !  "  and  ran  the  mules  that  were  grazing  near, 


266 


TALES    OP   THE    TRAIL 


into  the  corral,  while  the  entire  company  turned 
out  of  their  blankets  on  the  report  of  a  rifle  on 
the  midnight  air  coming  from  the  direction  of  the 
Rock. 

In  a  few  minutes  young  Kit  came  running  down 
toward  the  corral,  where  the  men  had  collected, 
and  Col.  St.  Vrain  asked  him  if  he  had  Been  any 
Indians. 


THE  TRAIN   AT  PAWNEE   ROCK. 

"Yes,"  replied  Kit,  UI  killed  one  of  the  red 
devils  —  I  saw  him  fall." 

There  was  no  further  disturbance  that  night; 
it  proved  to  be  a  false  alarm ;  so  all  who  were  not 
standing  guard  that  night  were  soon  peacefully 
sleeping  again. 


CARSON'S   FIRST  INDIAN  267 

The  next  morning  at  the  first  streak  of  day, 
every  one  was  up  and  anxious  to  see  young  Car- 
sou's  dead  Indian.  They  went  out  en  masse  to  the 
Rock,  when  instead  of  finding  a  painted  Pawnee, 
they  discovered  Kit's  riding-mule,  dead  —  shot 
through  the  head. 

The  boy  felt  terribly  mortified  over  his  ridicu- 
lous blunder,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  he 
heard  the  last  of  his  midnight  shot  at  his  mule. 

He  explained  to  me  the  circumstances :  He  had 
not  slept  any  the  previous  night,  and  he  had 
watched  so  earnestly  for  a  chance  to  kill  a  Pawnee 
that  he  supposed  he  must  have  fallen  asleep  lean- 
ing against  the  face  of  the  Rock ;  ' '  but  I  was  wide 
enough  awake  to  hear  the  cry  of '  Indians ! '  "  said 
he.  "  I  had  picketed  my  mule  about  twenty  steps 
from  where  I  stood,  and  I  suppose  it  had  been 
lying  down.  All  I  know  is  that  the  first  thing  I 
saw  after  the  alarm  was  something  rising  up  out 
of  the  grass.  I  thought  sure  it  was  an  Indian ;  I 
took  aim,  and  pulled  the  trigger.  It  was  a  center 
shot;  I  don't  believe  that  mule  kicked  once  after 
he  was  hit!  " 

In  the  morning,  a  few  minutes  after  the  men 
had  returned  from  a  visit  to  Kit's  dead  mule,  a 
real  battle  commenced.  The  Pawnees  attacked 
the  camp  in  earnest,  and  kept  the  little  outfit 


268  TALES   OF   THE   TRAIL 

busy  all  that  day,  the  next  night,  and  till  the 
following  night — nearly  three  whole  days,  the 
animals  all  that  time  shut  up  in  the  corral  with- 
out food  or  water. 

On  the  second  midnight  the  men  harnessed  up 
and  attempted  to  drive  out,  but  were  driven  back 
and  had  to  give  it  up. 

The  third  night,  just  before  morning,  they  tried 
it  again,  determined  to  reach  the  ford  at  Pawnee 
Rock  to  water  their  animals,  or  all  would  perish. 
It  was  a  little  more  than  ten  miles  distant  from 

the  Rock  (and  is  now  within  the  corporate  limits 

f 

of  Larned) . 

They  succeeded  in  keeping  off  the  savages,  and 
arrived  at  the  ford  in  comparative  safety.  The 
trail  at  that  point  crossed  the  creek  in  the  shape 
of  a  horseshoe;  or  rather,  in  consequence  of  a 
double  bend  in  the  stream  as  it  debouches  into 
the  Arkansas,  the  road  crossed  it  twice,  as  all  who 
have  traveled  the  old  Santa  Fe  trail  in  the  early 
days  will  remember. 

In  making  this  crooked  passage  many  of  the 
wagons  were  badly  wrecked  in  the  creek,  because 
the  mules  were  terribly  thirsty,  and  their  drivers 
could  not  control  them. 

The  caravan  was  hardly  "  strung  out "  again  on 
the  opposite  bank  of  the  Pawnee,  when  the  In- 


CARBON'S   FIRST  INDIAN  269 

dians  poured  a  shower  of  arrows  and  a  volley  of 
bullets  from  both  sides  of  the  trail  into  the  train. 
But  before  they  could  reload  or  draw  their  arrows 
a  desperate  charge  was  made  among  them,  headed 
by  the  Colonel,  and  it  took  only  a  few  minutes 
to  clear  out  the  savages,  and  then  the  caravan 
moved  on. 

During  the  whole  fight  at  the  Rock  and  at  Paw- 
nee Fork,  the  party  lost  four  men  killed,  seven 
Wounded,  and  eleven  mules  killed  (not  including 
Kit's),  and  twenty  wounded. 

From  this  fight  Kit  said  Pawnee  Rock  was 
named. 


A  THEORY  AS  TO  GEN.  OUSTER'S  DEATH. 


DID    HE    COMMIT    SUICIDE  ? 


LITTLE  is  known  of  the  origin 
of  scalp  -  taking,  and  that, 
vague  and  indefinite :  nearly 
every  tribe  has  some  wild, 
weird  legend  to  account  for 
the  custom,  but  these  tradi- 
tions vary  widely  as  to  the 
cause.  That  "raising  the 
hair  "  of  an  enemy  is  of  great 
antiquity,  there  is  no  doubt, 
as  in  the  Bible  it  is  related 
how  the  soldiers  tore  the  skin 
from  the  heads  of  their 
whipped  foes.  All,  or  at  least 
all  Indian  tribes  with  which  I  am  acquainted, 
scalp  their  enemies  killed  in  battle. 

With  the  Indian  there  appears  to  be  some  close 
affiliation  between  the  departed  spirit  and  his 
hair.  I  have  questioned  many  a  blood-begrimed 
warrior  why  he  should  want  a  dead  man's  hair, 

270 


GEN.  GEORGE  A.  OUSTER. 


GENERAL   CUSTER's   DEATH  271 

and  invariably  there  have  been  assigned  a  number 
of  reasons,  three  of  which  are  most  prominent: 
First,  it  is  an  evidence  to  his  people  that  he  has 
triumphed  over  an  enemy;  second,  the  scalps  are 
employed  very  prominently  in  the  incantations  of 
the  "medicine  lodge" — a  part  of  their  religious 
rites;  third,  the  savage  believes  there  is  a  won- 
derfully inherent  power  in  the  scalp  of  an  enemy. 
All  the  excellent  qualities  of  the  victim  go  with 
his  hair  the  moment  it  is  wrenched  from  his  head. 
If  it  be  that  of  a  renowned  warrior,  so  much  the 
more  are  they  anxious  to  procure  his  scalp,  for 
the  fortunate  possessor  then  inherits  all  the 
bravery  and  prowess  of  its  original  owner. 

I  have  known  of  but  one  instance  in  all  my  ex- 
perience among  the  Indians,  where  a  white  man 
taken  prisoner  in  battle  escaped  death.  It  was  a 
great  many  years  ago;  the  party,  a  dear  friend, 
still  living,  was  a  grand  old  mountaineer, —  but 
the  homeliest  man  on  earth,  probably.  He  was 
red-faced,  wrinkled,  and  pockmarked,  with  a 
mouth  as  large  and  full  of  teeth  as  a  gorilla's, 
and  there  was  no  more  hair  on  any  part  of  his 
head  than  there  is  on  the  head  of  a  cane.  He 
was  captured  in  a  prolonged  fight  and  taken  to 
the  village  of  the  tribe  where  the  principal  chief 
resided.  The  latter  gave  one  look  at  the  prisoner, 


272  TALES   OF   THE    TRAIL 

shook  his  head,  and  said  he  was  "  bad  medicine  " ; 
that  if  he  was  not  the  "evil  spirit"  himself,  he 
was  closely  allied  to  him.  He  then  ordered  his 
subordinates  to  furnish  him  with  a  pony,  loaded 
him  with  provisions,  provided  him  with  a  rifle, 
and  told  him  to  go  to  his  people.  This  incident, 
which  is  a  fact,  shows  that  you  cannot  account 
for  the  occasional  vagaries  of  the  North- American 
savage. 

The  Indians  of  the  Plains  and  Rocky  Mountains 
would  rather,  for  the  reason  last  above  stated, 
take  one  scalp  of  a  famous  scout  or  army  officer 
who  has  successfully  chastised  them,  like  Ouster, 
Sully,  and  Crook,  than  a  dozen  of  those  of  ordi- 
nary white  men. 

Twenty-six  years  ago  next  November  I  was 
camping  on  the  high  "divide"  between  the 
Arkansas  river  and  the  Beaver,  with  a  party 
of  Government  Indian  scouts,  members  of  three 
friendly  tribes, —  Osages,  Pawnees,  and  Kaws, — 
employed  by  order  of  Gen.  Sheridan  in  his  winter 
campaign  against  the  hostile  Cheyennes,  Arapa- 
hoes,  and  Kiowas.  It  was  a  terribly  gusty  day, 
one  of  those  so  characteristic  of  our  Plains  region 
at  certain  times  of  the  year.  As  with  closely 
wrapped  blankets  we  huddled  around  our  little 
fire  of  buffalo-chips,  the  dust  and  ashes  would 


GENERAL    CUBTER's   DEATH 


273 


rise  in  miniature  whirlwinds  and  go  dancing  over 
the  prairies  until  they  exhausted  themselves. 

I  asked  a  venerable  chief  of  the  Osages  who  was 
present,    "Little   River,"   nearly    eighty    years 
old,  what  those  fitful  spirals  indicated,  in  order 
to   draw  from   his  sav- 
age  mind  his  ideas  of 
the  forces   of   nature. 
He  replied:  "They  are 
the   spirits    of    some 
southern  Indians,  killed 
and   scalped  up  north, 
going    back    to    the 
lodges  of  their  people." 

I  thought  that  if  he 
had   substituted   the 
word   "  matter  "    for 
"spirit" — for  every- 
where we  tread  upon  the  dust  of  a  lost  civiliza- 
tion—  probably  he  would  have  been  nearer  the 
truth  than  in  the  statement  of  one  of  the  super- 
stitions of  his  race. 

Among  the  many  myths  of  the  American  sav- 
age, the  disposition  of  the  soul  after  its  separation 
from  the  body,  and  its  close  connection  with  its 
scalp,  vary  according  to  the  religion  of  the  tribe. 
With  some,  the  "journey  to  the  happy  hunting- 
—  18 


LITTLE    RIVER. 


274  TALES   OF   THE    TRAIL 

grounds"  begins  immediately;  with  others,  the 
spirit  remains  near  the  grave.  Again,  if  an  In- 
dian dies  away  from  the  lodges  of  his  people,  the 
spirit  returns  at  once  to  them,  where  it  hovers,  as 
if  reluctant  to  leave.  Among  the  "upper-river 
tribes  "  it  is  believed  that  before  the  spirit  finally 
departs  from  those  who  have  died  of  wounds  re- 
ceived in  battle,  "it  floats  toward  a  great  cliff 
overhanging  the  Missouri,  and  carves  upon  the 
wall  of  rock  a  picture  showing  the  manner  of 
death."  It  is  believed  by  most  Plains  tribes 
that  the  soul  attaches  itself  to  the  scalp;  that 
the  soul  of  a  person  scalped  does  not  suffer  from 
the  wounds  inflicted  on  the  body,  but  that  the 
converse  is  the  case  where  the  scalp  is  not  torn  off. 

There  are  many  instances  on  record  where  men 
have  been  scalped  and  yet  survived  the  terrible 
ordeal,  but  in  every  case  the  scalper  supposed  his 
victim  dead,  the  latter  taking  good  care  that  the 
foeman  should  not  be  disabused  ot  the  supposed 
fact. 

One  who  kills  himself  in  battle,  accidentally 
or  purposely,  has  positively  no  hereafter;  he  is 
irrevocably  lost.  Those  who  are  struck  by  light- 
ning, or  die  by  any  other  apparently  direct  opera- 
tion of  the  "Mauitou"  (the  Great  Spirit),  are 
hurriedly  buried  where  they  fall,  without  any  cer- 


GENERAL   OUSTER'S   DEATH  275 

emony,  and  no  mound  or  other  mark  is  erected 
over  them.  If  after  a  battle  there  are  found 
corpses  not  scalped  or  their  bodies  not  mutilated, 
it  is  certain  that  those  persons  came  to  death  by 
their  own  hand,  for  it  is  part  of  the  religion  of  an 
Indian  not  to  scalp  or  mutilate  the  body  of  an 
enemy  who  commits  suicide.  His  superstition  in 
regard  to  persons  dying  by  suicide  or  by  lightning 
is  as  religiously  observed  as  any  other  of  his 
myths. 

Knowing  this  deep-rooted  superstition  as  well 
as  I  do,  I  have  been  led  to  believe  —  though  the 
statement  may  provoke  discussion  among  those 
who  know  nothing  of  the  Indian  character  —  that 
the  death  of  the  lamented  Gen.  Ouster  in  that 
awfully  unequal  battle  of  the  "  Little  Big  Horn" 
was  not  according  to  the  accepted  theory  at  that 
time,  viz. :  that  he  was  killed  by  the  Indian  chief 
u  Rain-in-the-face."  The  tale  (which  I  regard  as 
an  idle  fiction  so  far  as  the  facts  are  concerned) 
as  it  has  been  told  a  thousand  times  and  copied  in 
the  newspapers  of  the  world,  is,  that  one  day  the 
General's  brother  Tom,  at  one  of  the  military 
posts  where  the  regiment  to  which  he  was  at- 
tached, the  famous  Seventh  Cavalry  (commanded 
by  the  General),  was  stationed,  had  a  dispute 
with  Rain-in-the-face,  and  struck  him.  The  sav- 


276  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

age  was  furious  with  rage,  but  suppressed  it,  and 
mounting  his  pony  rode  off  sullenly  to  his  lodge. 
Years  after  the  death  of  Gen.  Ouster,  Rain-in- 
the-face,  who  unquestionably  participated  in  the 
battle  of  the  Rosebud  (as  the  action  is  sometimes 
called),  is  said  to  have  related  that  he  killed  Gen. 
Ouster,  thus  avenging  himself  for  the  indignity 
put  upon  himself  by  the  General's  brother  Tom, 
so  long  before.  In  all  probability  the  story  was 
made  out  of  "whole  cloth"  by  a  certain  New 
York  newspaper  correspondent,  in  whose  journal 
it  first  appeared.  I  knew  him  well,  and  his  repu- 
tation for  unexaggerated  truth  was  far  from  be- 
ing as  orthodox  as  he  of  the  cherry -tree  fame. 
Because  it  had  a  plausibility  about  it,  and  was 
highly  sensational,  the  statement  was  accepted  by 
the  general  public,  or  those  who  were  not  familiar 
with  the  methods  of  the  North- American  savage. 
No  doubt  Raiu-in-the-face  did,  as  would  all  In- 
dians, treasure  up  such  a  grievance  as  that  of  hav- 
ing been  insulted  by  a  blow  from  a  white  man; 
but  the  circumstances  of  the  battle  of  the  Little 
Big  Horn  in  all  its  horrors,  so  far  as  it  is  possible 
to  know  them,  preclude  the  possibility  of  Sitting 
Bull  permitting  a  subordinate  chief,  as  was  Rain- 
in-the-face,  to  arrogate  to  himself  the  right  of 
revenge  in  the  case  of  such  a  noted  "white  war- 


GENERAL   CUBTER's   DEATH 


277 


rior"  as  Ouster.  If  by  any  probability  Rain-in- 
the-face  did  kill  Ouster,  he  certainly  would  have 
scalped  him  and  mutilated  his  body.  Ouster  was 


not  scalped,  nor  was  his  person  at  all  abused ;  and 
the  reason  generally  given  for  this  immunity  from 
the  common  custom  of  savage  warfare  is,  that  the 
Indians  had  such  a  profound  admiration  for  his 
wonderful  bravery  that  they  spared  the  great 


278  TALES    OF   THE    TRAIL 

"white  warrior"  that  humiliation.  This  is  the 
weakest  point  of  the  whole  argument — for  the 
greater  the  mail  in  the  savages'  estimation,  the 
more  eager  would  they  be  to  secure  his  scalp. 

My  own  theory  is — and  the  fact  that  Ouster 
was  not  scalped  or  mutilated  is  not  the  only  con- 
firmation of  it — that  the  General  killed  himself 
to  escape  the  horrible  torture  that  awaited  him 
should  he  be  captured  alive.  His  capture  was 
what  Sitting  Bull  had  undoubtedly  determined 
upon,  the  moment  he  saw  the  tide  of  battle 
unmistakably  turning  in  his  favor. 

Ouster  was  kno\jn  to  all  the  Plains  tribes ;  he 
had  given  them  ample  cause  to  remember  him, 
and  these  savages  would  never  have  allowed  an 
opportiinity  to  capture  him  alive  to  be  defeated 
by  permitting  some  aggrieved  chief  to  kill  him  in 
order  to  gratify  a  personal  revenge — the  game 
was  too  big.  The  Indians  called  Ouster  the 
"Crawling  Panther,"  because  he  usually  fell 
upon  them  with  his  troopers  as  stealthily  as  does 
that  animal  upon  its  prey. 

To  those  ur» acquainted  with  the  methods  of  the 
American  savage  of  the  Great  Plains,  the  state- 
ment that  suicide  would  be  infinitely  preferable 
to  the  chances  for  life  after  having  been  captured 
by  the  Indians,  may  seem  overdrawn,  and  wicked 


GENERAL   CU8TEB5B   DEATH  279 

to  be  thought  of.  But  if  they  had  seen,  as  I  have, 
the  remains  of  men,  women  and  innocent  babes 
horribly  mutilated,  burnt,  butchered,  and  hacked 
to  pieces,  they  too,  if  they  knew  such  a  fate 
awaited  them  beyond  the  possibility  of  a  doubt 
if  captured  alive,  would  unhesitatingly  court 
death  by  their  own  hands,  suddenly  and  imme- 
diately, rather  than  wait  for  the  other,  a  few 
hours  or  days  more  remote,  perhaps,  but  certain, 
and  horrible  in  its  prolonged  agony. 

I  know  that  it  was  commonly  understood,  if 
not  actually  agreed  to  among  the  officers  at  fron- 
tier posts,  that  each  one  should  reserve  the  last 
bullet  in  his  revolver  for  himself  in  the  event  of 
a  horrible  contingency.  I  have  known  of  many 
officers  in  the  long-ago  of  my  early  service  among 
the  Indians,  who,  whenever  they  went  on  an  ex- 
pedition against  the  hostile  tribes,  invariably  had 
concealed  about  their  persons,  easily  accessible,  a 
small  capsule  of  prussic  acid  or  some  equally  po- 
tent and  swift  messenger  of  death,  to  be  used  in 
case  of  a  possible  contingency. 

Ouster,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  shot  through 
the  head,  and  it  was  a  curious  coincidence  that 
two  or  three  of  his  subordinates  whose  bodies  were 
found  near  his  had  been  shot  in  precisely  the  same 
manner. 


280  TALES   OP   THE   TRAIL 

In  view  of  all  these  facts,  there  can  be  small 
doubt  that  those  officers  carried  out  the  plan  of 
death  determined  upon,  the  moment  they  recog- 
nized the  hopelessness  of  their  situation. 

That  the  story  of  Rain-in-the-face,  if  he  ever 
told  it,  is  not  at  all  likely  to  be  the  truth,  may 
be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  the  average  Indian, 
as  I  know  him,  when  discoursing  of  his  own  prow- 
ess is  the  most  unconscionable  liar,  and  the  truth 
is  not  in  him.  Of  course  if  Rain-in-the-face  could 
prevail  upon  a  newspaper  correspondent  to  flatter 
him  in  regard  to  the  part  he  took  in  a  battle  in 
which  a  great  white  warrior  was  defeated,  he 
would  rather  lie  to  that  correspondent  than  not ; 
and  that  is  just  what  Rain-in-the-face  did  in  this 
instance — provided,  always,  that  the  correspond- 
ent did  not  invent  the  whole  tale. 

The  truth  of  how  Ouster  came  to  his  death  can 
never  absolutely  be  known,  for  out  of  that  awfully 
unequal  conflict  there  came  but  one  miserable 
Crow  Indian  and  Col.  Keogh's  celebrated  horse 
"Coinanche,"  alive.  From  the  fact  that  the 
great  soldier  was  not  scalped,  the  theory  I  have 
suggested  is  certainly  more  plausible,  and  will  be 
accepted  by  all  who  are  familiar  with  the  customs 
of  the  Indians,  than  that  story  which  has  made 
the  rounds  of  the  newspapers  a  dozen  times. 


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